Transmission Breakdown
by OblivionDragon
Summary: As the Decepticons plan destruction for Earth and Cybertron, the Autobots fight to make Earth their home. But fate is not always kind... and popcorn can kill.
1. A Ratchet in His Plans

I would like to begin by saying that Optimus Prime is my hero!  And he has been since I was little. I grew up on Beast Wars, I dabbled in G1 and RiD with my babysitter, and Armada was like reliving my childhood whenever I saw it.  The new movie kicks major aft and compelled me to write some fanfiction to vent the awesomeness out of my brain.

I try to pick a theme for each of my stories.  This time it's communication.  Which makes my title somewhat humorous.  I'm not exactly trying to write a comedy here, but if it turns out intermittently funny, cool.  I would like to keep things hovering a few feet off the ground rather than flying off into space though. (coughStarscreamcough)

I don't own Transformers or profit from this crazy adventure in anyway.

My chapters tend to be short, but the first one is a double. Enjoy!

Ratchet's Big Night Out

When Ratchet received the cryptic transmission, he didn't quite know what to make of it. Its suspicious nature sorely tempted him to ask Optimus Prime to come with him.

Unfortunately for Autobot protocol (and one Prowl, who at that very moment had a violent, inexplicable spasm of disapproval millions of miles away) Ratchet had always harbored a curious streak as long as Cybertron's solar orbit.  Judging the risk to be minimal, given that humans didn't know much about Autobots and that Optimus wasn't really that far away, he relayed a quick summary of his intentions to Ironhide and found himself at the designated place three hours before the designated time. Alone.

He began by making a compilation of scans that detailed his surroundings.  As a medic, Ratchet possessed a wide range of the finest, most powerful short range scanners Cybertron had ever seen and the sensory processing speed to back them up.  By the time 21:01:16 rolled around, he had analyzed and documented everything there was to know about the surrounding area from radiation readings to pollen levels in the air to the diet of the cactus wren, whose excrement had landed entirely too close to his left mirror for comfort.

After another 8.67 minutes Ratchet idly wondered if he had shown up perhaps a bit too early. He had intended to be there before the human was entirely prepared to receive him, but it was beginning to dawn on him that he may have shown up prematurely because he had nothing better to do. Just as he was settling into a review of his lately (and thankfully, given his occupation) lackluster schedule, the rumble of an automobile engine entered his sensory range.

Perhaps he wasn't the only one who wasn't nearly busy enough.

-Agent Simmons on a Date with his Ego-

Agent Simmons had had enough. Enough of pushing papers in some legitimate and decidedly un-secret section of the government. Enough of pretending there were no giant alien robots on the doorstep of humanity.  Enough of drinking the disgusting slop his boss's secretary made when he should be having double-venti macchiatos.  But mostly he had had enough of waiting for something to happen.

If there was one thing Agent Albrecht Simon Simmons was good at, it was sticking his large, beaky nose into very secretive business.  He knew exactly how terrified the higher-ups were, not so much of giant Non-Biological Extraterrestrials, but of the existence of giant, Non-Biological Extraterrestrials.  They- capital They- were quaking in their sock garters with terror over the possibility of a car walking up to them and saying hello. So they did nothing but hold secret cocktail hours where everyone looked over their martinis with wide eyes and as a rule only exchanged vague, shapeless statements which avoided the issue as neatly as possible.

So now Agent Simmons was driving down a back road in Nevada with the former Secretary of Defense (and current Chief of Staff) John Keller, in his front seat looking grave.  And for the very same reasons former S7 Agent Tom Banachek along with the current Secretary of Defense, the head of the FBI, the Secretary of Homeland Security, and high school senior Samuel James Witwicky were stuffed, fuming and feeling extremely awkward, in the back of his government- issue black SUV.  Sadly, his aide was visiting his sick mother rather than driving a second car. He would have enjoyed this.

Simmons smirked as he neared his father's old campsite. Not nearly secret enough by his standards, but it would have to do for the preliminaries.  He was glad he'd started collecting his passengers early; he was running later than expected due to their stubbornness and the attitude of Witwicky's little girlfriend, but he should still have time to explain things before the arrival of the guest of honor.

As he wound down the overgrown lane, Simmons regressed to fond memories of being driven here with his sisters and their friends.  Of all the gossip he'd overheard, unseen under a layer of ferns as they talked by the campfire. Of being chased up a tree in the ravine by the angry horde after being discovered hanging their bras all over the campsite.  Of staying in that tree for three nights until they finally forgot he was up there, and sneaking to a gas station to call his parents for extraction…

A frown creased his brow as he rounded the final bend to see a yellow and red fire-rescue Hummer parked at the far side of the clearing facing the entrance. Hearing the boy in the back stifle a snicker, Simmons inwardly cursed the giant alien robot medic.  He filed this breach in top-secret alien robot etiquette away for later; this Autobot was clearly a devious one.  NBE Ratchet was clearly trying to make things difficult for him by showing up over two and a half hours early, not giving him time to debrief his guests privately.

Agent Simmons schooled his features as he parked some distance away, but still facing the camouflaged Autobot.  He WOULD maintain control of the situation.  He smiled his most charming smile as he turned around in his seat to face his passengers, unlocking the vehicle doors.

"Gentlemen, it's time to talk."

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How was that for a setup?

Let me see, what should I warn you guys about… Oh yeah. More characters?  I may or may not revive Jazz due to the rumors flying around.  He is still offline as of the beginning of this story.  I love him, but if he is going to come back, he's going to get an entrance worth waiting for. Not going to turn people into robots.  That's pretty standard, since this isn't an anyone-centric kind of fic.  I'm also not going to make up any robots; I love the old ones too much.  Is everyone and their mom going to show up from Cybertron?  No.  I don't need everyone's mom in the story and I can't deal with that many characters.  I guarantee some arrivals, good and bad, but definitely some ugly.  Ratchet is going to kill me.  New people?  I like the film cast fine.  I think I'll use them.  I've made up some old fogies to do important stuff and I cameo as usual, but no major OCs, thank Primus.

You may have noticed but sometimes I make stuff up. I'm ok with that. For instance: Simmons's full name. I just wanted his initials to be A.S.S. If you want to know if something is true or an authorism, read my notes and feel free to ask. I won't lie to you twice.

Enjoy the fic and please review!

But first, meet Retrospect! He's a transforming time machine with some disco style. He allows me to go back in time and write fictional robots into all of my chapters from the beginning… for a price of bellbottoms!


	2. An Average Day

This story is really addictive to write, I already have a bunch set aside for later. I prefer to post a few chapters behind so I can edit and work some retroactive plot magic.  The first chapter seemed a bit dry to me, but as you will see in a moment, I like to switch up my style a bit. I hope you like the chapter title.

I still don't own or profit from Transformers.

An Average Day in the Life of the Teenage Friend of a Giant Alien Robot from Space Who Disguises Himself as a Sports Car and Aspires to be the Worlds Biggest iPod:

Awesome.

Sam Witwicky's day had started out normally. He woke up, went through his ritual of morning hygiene, dressed, put on his cologne and bounced into the kitchen.  He chugged a glass of milk and ran out the door with one of his mother's home-baked banana nut muffins in his mouth, throwing his backpack over his shoulder and stuffing his feet into his shoes without tying them.

As he bolted into the driveway the engine of his alien robot car roared to life as usual, the yellow Camaro lunging forward a few feet playing a few bars of "Good Morning Sunshine" in greeting.  As Sam reached for the door handle, however, the locks clicked and Bee backed away in offense.

"Awww, come awn Bee, jus' this once?"

"It ain't no lie, baby BYE bye bye!"

"Dude, that's so not cool.  I know for a fact that Lennox's kid can eat in Ironhide.  And please don't blast NSYNC so loud!" He crunched loudly on the nuts in the muffin, savoring the banana-nutty goodness.

"Ironhide is still undercover, and the infant needs sustenance every two hours.  You know I am not just a car, and Ratchet knows that I know that you know that food and Autobots don't mix.  He expressly prohibited me from allowing you near me with food after the popcorn incident.  If it happens again, I think he will really leave me that way."

Taking another bite of the muffin, Sam went on the defensive.  "But Bee, that was an accident.  You know that I'd never purposefully gum up your incendiary cannon-"

"Or cause a misalignment in my orientational equilibrium matrix."

"Right, I really am sorry about that-"

"It was, with the exception of Mikaela's driving, and combined with the erratic readings caused by kernels popping in my primary sensory relays, the most frightening experience of my life.  "-Forget what you heard, if I said it I meant it-" Either the muffin goes or I do, Sam."

Sam eyed the tiny chunk of muffin in his hand longingly and after looking appraisingly between it and Bumblebee, tossed the last bite of it into the trash can and approached the triumphant yellow vehicle.

"This is how we get this done, you can check on the rep- yep!- second to none."

"Not even to one of my mom's muffins, Bee. Now, her brownies, mind you-"

"Sam! You wouldn't!"

"Nah, I'm just kidding. Geez, the way you act maybe I should've saved you guys some grief and shoved a bag of popcorn into Megatron's chest to get rid of him instead of the Allspark."

There was a tense pause for a moment, then: "Sam, promise me you won't ever repeat that in the presence of any other Autobots."

"Oh…ok…"

And then the world's strangest Chevy Camaro burst into a fit of two-ton metallic giggles.

So that had been a somewhat average morning on the whole.  He always planned to wake up a little early and eat breakfast in the driveway chatting with Bumblebee, then take a leisurely drive to school and hang out with him in the parking lot for a few minutes.  His parents had found out that Bee was sentient and could talk some time ago when they'd caught him driving a snoring Sam back from a meeting with the Autobots. They had had no choice but to explain some of the basics.  Now the couple took pains to skirt several feet around the bot when leaving the house but made no attempt to converse.  It irritated Bee that they still called him The Car, but since he and Sam were no longer in deep cover he was willing to forgive and ignore at least as passionately as Ronald and Judith Witwicky.

School had been normal, boring even, and it was with glee that Sam dashed through the parking lot and dove into Bumblebee's driver's seat, then sped off to the sound of Boys like Girls: "Throw it away! Forget yesterday! We'll make the great escape…  We won't hear a word they say; they don't know us anyway…"

They took the long way home, buzzed on a care-free weekend, engaging in a fierce battle of wits and song lyrics as they drove.  As soon as they reached their destination, Sam bolted upstairs and set himself upon his homework.  His curfew had been extended to midnight as long as he finished it all in the afternoon.  Unless of course he was going to one of the few, long official meetings with other giant alien robots which his parents preferred not to think about.  As soon as his explanation included the term 'Autobots' he was sent to bed with no further questions.

It was at around six when, this being a Friday and Friday being the least Autobot-friendly night to be on the road (what with all the teenagers high on freedom zipping around), Bumblebee usually stayed home to make his weekly report to Optimus Prime and receive a summary of the others' activities.  There being only one complete and three abbreviated reports to share- four, if one included Jazz's portion of their duties, now largely carried out by Optimus and Ratchet- one wouldn't expect it to take all evening.  But having acquired an idea of the scope of Autobot interests when Bumblebee started translating his contribution one week to humor the boy, Sam decided to leave him well enough alone on Fridays.  So he rode his new, masculine black bike to meet Mikaela for ice cream.

They didn't get to see each other much this year; with Mikaela's juvie record erased she had been putting in a heroic amount of effort to get into a good school and earn her tuition.  Her hard work scored her a free ride at the local tech's summer program, where she could become a certified mechanic and thusly pay her way through engineering school.  Their relationship had ground to a halt when they each discovered that neither had the time to devote to each other, and both realized that things had been moving way too fast- even for ladiesman217- and started over as close friends.  Well, close friends who went on a weekly date and the occasional romantic day trip with a third, fourth, fifth, and sixth wheel yellow Camaro.

So there they were at Crazy Bob's Minigolf and Ice Cream Stand trading news and enjoying thousands of calories of pure bliss.  Little did they know that someone was on to their ill-conceived plot to hide the most incredible thing to happen to mankind since the corrugated coffee cozy…

And thus, as they walked back to the parking lot to retrieve the manly bike and Mikaela's blue scooter, they were accosted by a familiar face in a suit and sock garters.  Questions were asked but not answered, insults were thrown, and an unfortunate seagull may have been hit with a flying cone of cherry garcia, but the end result was unavoidable.

Which may or may not be why Samuel James Witwicky, great-great-grandson of Captain Archibald Witwicky, friend of the giant Autonomous Robots from the planet Cybertron, slayer of the evil Decepticon leader Megatron, heroic destroyer of the Allspark, and recipient of the "Best Car" superlative award in his high school yearbook, was crammed in the back of a black GMC driving through The Backside-of-nowhere, Nevada with five of the most important defensive figures in the country- and one complete nutcase.

One kidnap-happy nutcase who was so boned if Bumblebee found out.

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MUAHAHAHA! I introduce to you Puttrid, the 18th hole in mini-golf! He will _always _spit your ball back out, so you'll never get that free game!


	3. Grumpy Old Men

I'd like to thank the folks who have reviewed; that helps with the motivation to write in a big way. I still don't own Transformers, nor do I profit from them. The same goes for any music or other media that I choose to quote, such as Aqua, NSYNC, Styles of Beyond, etc. even if I forget to mention them specifically.

In regards to the previous chapter I would like to express appreciation for the relatively young band Boys Like Girls; _The Great Escape _is one of my favorite songs ever. Martin is a friend of my sister's and I never cease to be impressed with his voice. I'm just happy it fit in so well with Bumblebee's songcabulary, and I dedicate its usage to anyone enjoying the fantastic limbo between high school and college. College is awesome, but take a million pictures and hang onto this last month like your life depends on it. This time next year you'll hardly recognize yourself and you'll need evidence to prove how much you've changed.

I still don't own or profit from Transformers!

And now let us return to the problem at hand: "Gentlemen, its time to talk."

Grumpy Old Men

With that remark, Simmons exited the SUV, quickly running to a lean-to half grown over by brush, rummaging a moment before hitting a switch. Five lights mounted on posts around the clearing sprang to life; one sprayed sparks as its filament gave out and another buzzed and flickered annoyingly. The passengers filed out of their temporary prison and took in their surroundings.

Banachek rolled his eyes heavenward when he identified the vehicle before them, praying that Simmons knew what he was doing. Sam, for what it was worth, surreptitiously gestured for Ratchet to stay where he was as Simmons walked down the line of his unamused abductees.

"I'm sure you're wondering by now why I have brought you here, to this _secure _location." Simmons stated, preening under the undivided attention he was receiving.

"Cut the shit Albrecht, what the hell are you trying to pull? One of your _giant _conspiracy theories again?" FBI Chief Hiller was downright livid. At 6'6" and a septogenarian, he seemed permanently bent at the waist leaning forward; his narrow shoulders, round belly, and weak chin covered in a scraggly beard had made him a cartoonists dream. But his watery grey, spectacled eyes were furious enough to make Agent Simmons step back, holding his hands up defensively.

"I would like everyone to remain as calm as possible. There's no need to jump to conclusions; I merely thought some… introductions were in order."

"Introductions?? You really are a loose cannon, Simmons, dragging us all the way out here against our wills for _introductions._" The Secretary of Homeland Security was a small, dark-haired woman in her early to mid fifties. Her pale face stood out garishly from her black pantsuit, her old-fashioned frame of black curls ruffling slightly in the breeze and her stance speaking of nothing but barely restrained outrage toward Simmons.

"Loretta's right. What sort of operation are you trying to stage here that couldn't have taken place a little closer to L.A.?" Defense Secretary Whitmore was an average-looking fellow in perhaps his late fifties. He spoke softly and slouched with his hands in his pockets looking relaxed, but the set of his jaw betrayed his frustration. His thickly lidded eyes were the exact ashy brown of his hair, but with dark pouches beneath each. Chief of Staff Keller recalled that this man was not much younger than himself, but knew that in a few years he would look just as old. One aged twice as fast in his line of work.

Seeing that Simmons was looking nervous faced with three very angry and intimidating personages, Keller decided to interject. "I understand that you're tired and upset, we all are, but I guarantee you this wouldn't be possible in- or near- the city."

Secretary "Loretta" Hewitt's eyes narrowed as she turned to address her sister's husband. "John Reginald Keller. You know what's going on. Spill."

_"I _brought you here. I think _I'll _do the spilling, thank you. Now-"

"You know what? Shut up. You and your 'Aloha' panties have done enough damage for one evening. We can-"

_"Excuse me? _You listen here, young man. This isn't a joke. I have to make sure this is done _right!_ Internationalrelations require a proper start, and if you think for a minute that I'll-"

"What? Let me screw it up? Let me tell _you _what's screwed up. You're so caught up on introducing these guys-" Hewitt cleared her throat emphatically "-and lady, guys _and_ ladies to Ratchet, but have you even met the guy? Last time I checked, you needed to know someone before you could introduce someone to them. Wouldn't want to jeopardize inter_solar_relations." Sam crossed arms and raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Well I-"

"You know what? I think the boy is right. Why don't you get back in the car and let us handle this. You've done enough." Keller opened the driver's door of the SUV and waved for Simmons to get in.

"But-"

"We know. You put a lot of time and effort into writing and executing the script for our little evening jaunt in the woods. We don't care. Now get in the car." Hiller towered over Simmons, backing him into the car.

"Tom-?"

"No, I'm all right really. I think I'll just watch." Banachek offered no help to Simmons, deciding instead to remain forgotten on the periphery of the group as the door was shut on the flabbergasted former S7 agent.

Again the older members of the group converged, this time on Sam. "Well, what are we here for, kiddo, and who's in the fancy Hummer?" Hewitt, at least seemed to be in a better mood after literally and figuratively shutting the man up.

Sam straightened up and tried to bolster his own enthusiasm with a deep breath. This was going to be tough. "Well, first I think we should introduce ourselves so I don't go and contradict everything I just said. I'm Sam Witwicky, a graduating senior from Tranquility, California."

"Loretta Hewitt, Secretary of Homeland Security. A pleasure," she intoned as they shook hands firmly.

"Stuart Hiller, FBI Chief." He nodded, but extended no hand to be shaken.

"How d'you do, I'm Defense Secretary Melvin G. Whitmore, son." He clasped the teenager's hand briefly with both of his, then let go.

"And you already know myself and Tom. So why don't we get down to it?" With a nod from Sam, Keller put on his most serious press conference face and continued, "You are all aware of the string of incidents in the area southwest of here just under a year ago, whether or not you know the whole story- or want to admit it." He paused briefly; "These events were covered up, but cannot be erased. Times have changed, and we have been visited by an alien species unlike anything anyone has ever seen. If there is one thing I would ever agree with Agent Simmons about, it is that we have ignored our visitors for too long."

"Advanced foreign weapons, yes, but _aliens, _Keller?" Whitmore looked to his predecessor pleadingly. Hiller looked bewildered, but stayed silent.

"You're serious."

A sigh, "I have never been more serious in my life, Lori."

Silence reigned for several minutes before a popping sound was heard from the red and yellow Hummer. They all whipped around to look at it.

The passenger door was wide open.

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Wow, nostalgia. The story's up to Chapter 66 by the time I've added this, for reference. I hope you're enjoying a good reread if you've been here before, with some new robots for flavor. If not, welcome to the party and try not to read it all in one night. It'll still be here tomorrow!

But will Machgizmo, the amazing robotic Megazord launcher? Face it, he's been in multiple seasons, and they _still _use stock footage instead of giving him real screen time. He might just take his extra-dimensional robot-launching powers elsewhere. I know I would.


	4. Heads Up and Calm Down!

Thanks to my reviewers; I have now enabled anonymous reviews. I didn't know they were disabled. If you don't want to sign in but have a pen name, drop it in your review. I care. J

Anyway, I still don't own Transformers, or other products and media that I reference and don't profit from them. Enjoy.

_Recap: "a popping sound was heard from the red and yellow Hummer. They all whipped around to look at it._

_The passenger door was wide open."_

Heads Up and Calm Down

Hiller was the first to move, heading for the previously silent vehicle before being brushed past by a fast-moving Sam Witwicky. "It's alright… I, uh… I got this!" He waved for them to stay where they were as he dashed across the clearing.

He reached the Autobot, ducked around the open door, and leaned into the cabin, speaking barely above a whisper. "Sorry about this Ratch, I would've warned you if I'd known-"

The not-quite-car grumbled a little, but spoke lightly. "It's alright Sam. Between you and me, I haven't been this entertained since Bumblebee transformed after you went to the drive-in theater. I just wanted to let you know that, as I am not qualified to open official relations between Autobots and your species, I have called Optimus to join us. He is waiting just beyond the bend in the track and does not intend to come out until we call for him. He has authorized me to reveal myself first, since I'm already here and appear less… intimidating than an Autobot of his stature."

"Thanks Ratchet. No offense, but I feel a lot better knowing the big guy is here. Like I'm less likely to screw things up, you know?"

Ratchet chuckled. "No offense taken; he has that effect on everyone. Ah yes, and Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Bumblebee is on his way. He was worried when you didn't come back and he couldn't reach Miss Banes. I told him that you were safe and that I was with you, but you may need to intercede on behalf of the human who abducted you when he gets here."

"I may just let him rough Simmons up a little bit. He really shouldn't have chucked that ice cream at her. Good thing he throws like a girl and she dodges like she's on the boxing team." He looked up at the small cluster of American political power staring his way. "So now I guess I'm gonna mosey on back there and tell them you're a giant alien robot. When I wave you over, do you think you could drive up and transform in the least terrifying way possible? I'd like to get through the "We come in peace" part without anybody needing a change of pants."

"I will make my best effort to appear non-threatening, but I can't promise that I won't trigger any unfortunate biological reactions-"

"Thanks Ratchet, bye!" Sam closed the door and jogged off before shameless medical robot could say anything more embarrassing.

The eighteen-year-old jogged back to Keller and the others, suddenly feeling severely underdressed in his faded band t-shirt and ripped jeans. He shook it off and decided to start talking before he lost his nerve. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them nervously. "Well, in a few minutes I don't suppose you'll remember what I'm about to tell you no matter how carefully I phrase it, and you won't believe it anyway until you see it, but here goes." Here Sam took a deep breath, "The person you're about to meet is a friend of mine- his name is Ratchet- and he's an autonomous robot from the planet Cybertron. An Autobot, for short."

Dead silence. Then- "_What..?"_

"Son, you mean to tell me-"

"Please, Secretary Whitmore, sir. Please just try to absorb what I'm telling you, and prepare for who you're about to meet."

"Something called 'Ratchet,' who is a- what, again?"

"Giant alien robot."

"A giant alien robot."

"Exactly."

"So you're saying-?"

"Yes ma'am. That Hummer- there's no one in there. It's a giant alien robot."

"John?!"

He stared at the ground, nodded and said softly, "Just watch."

"Everybody think they're ready?" The unhappy campers traded looks, but no one spoke. "Great, let's get this party going then. Hey Ratchet! There's some folks over here who, you know, want to meet you… and stuff…" He sighed, hoping things wouldn't go as badly as they possibly could, and waved for the medic to approach them.

Ratchet, for his part was doing his level best to move slowly and in full view of the humans. He started his engine gently, keeping his lights pointed at the ground so as not to under-dilate their pupils, and drove right up to them, rolling to a comfortable stop. He watched as they realized, finally at close range and under the flickering spotlights, that the Hummer in fact had no driver. That addressed, he took the liberty of backing up several meters. He wanted to give them a good view but to also keep from looming right above them when he finished.

When he felt he was given their undivided attention and was optimally positioned, he started to change. He took his time; he was proficient with his transformation, but no artist. He couldn't alter the change itself to be less intimidating, but at a slow pace he could perhaps block their view of his left arm as it emerged and the brief flash of his circular saw he knew would concern them. He could also flip upright more carefully, placing his feet softly, and rotate his torso in a leisurely stretch instead of whipping it around quickly, as was his habit. And then, as subtly as it had begun, he could feel the last of his parts clicking and twisting into place, and he was done.

The first thing he did as he crouched lower to the ground, having recovered from the short period of sensory blackout during transformation, was to run a brief scan of the humans below him. His findings made him rather smug.

All bladders present were still perfectly functional.

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I've been trying to post every Tuesday, but if it gets a little erratic the next few weeks know that I will be moving back into college and settling into classes. I am hopeful that I'll be able to settle on a more permanent regular weekday to update on by October.

I've decided that whenever I hit a number of reviews divisible by 10, I will post a double! (And I've got a good buffer of chapters between posts and my active writing, so I won't just plop a break in one to be lazy.)

The made-up Transformer I need this week: Pulverizor, the jackhammer! Because New Hampshire is made of rock, and trees don't plant themselves!

I hope everyone had a kickass, Transformers-filled summer. I know I did.


	5. Be Nice to the GIANT ROBOT

Well, I've got this big long thing worked out and saved into html, why don't I go and post it a day early? Enjoy.

**An** **Cailin Dubh: **You caught me. I needed important people names and shamelessly raided the _Independence Day _cast list. The Captain Lennox and Sector Seven sides of _Transformers _really reminded me of it, so it worked out. And my FBI Chief is the old white guy version of the man I think Steven Hiller would have become fifty years and a rocket-launcher-enabled geriatric scooter later. Whitmore is definitely based on the _Independence Day _President, Commander in Chief of the United States of Badass. I can only write stuff in-character by imagining it in their voice, so I had to 'cast' everyone anyway. Why not make it fun? I'll post my casting choice when I introduce someone, if that helps.

**teh** **blumchenwhatsimahoozer:** Thank'ye kindly. Your review is damn decent and very helpful, thus I will continue writing A/N's, which I never quite believe anyone reads. I go to Middlebury College in Vermont, though.

**YFate:** Thanks again for the heads up on the anonymity problem. Pulverizor won't appear here since I made him up and I'm trying not to confuse myself in the context of this story. He may, however, materialize out of the pile of sticky notes that contain my ideas for some funny made-up-minibot one-shots. I think I'll be throwing out a little Allspark-induced hellion every week just because I keep coming up with ones that could help me out.

I still don't own _Transformers _or the rights to any other media I reference! Still not profiting!

Keep reviewing and I'll have to post more doubles and type faster!

Be Nice to the Alien Robot

_All bladders present were still perfectly functional._

"Well?"

The two-story question had been directed at Sam, but it only served to make the unfamiliar figures nervous.

"Oh, right, I just… never mind. Thanks. Folks, this is Ratchet, the Autobots' Chief Medical Officer. Ratchet, I'd like you to meet some people from the U.S. government. This is John Keller, he's Chief of the President's staff. Try wikipedia, if, you don't know…whatever."

Knowing that all the eyes of his colleagues were all on him, Keller approached the Autobot and extended his hand "I don't believe we had the pleasure of meeting after the events at Mission City."

Ratchet understood what the man was trying to accomplish and decided to cooperate, carefully taking the offered hand between the ends of his first two fingers and thumb, allowing Keller to do the shaking. "No, we didn't. I was busy reattaching Bumblebee's feet, though he did speak highly of you."

"Did he? I'm glad he recovered. And I'm also glad that you turned out to be the medic and not the weapons specialist; maybe Simmons has half an ounce of sense after all." He looked over his shoulder to check on the other humans, "Well, we should keep things moving, but thank you for coming here. I hope things will change for the better between us."

Ratchet nodded respectfully as the Chief of Staff went back to the others. Sam was nervously trying to decide who to introduce next, since no one was volunteering. Hiller was looking anywhere but at Ratchet, brows furrowed furiously. Conversely, Whitmore was staring wide-eyed at the Autobot, who was careful not to meet his gaze and startle the shell-shocked man. Loretta Hewitt's eyes were fixed on Keller as he returned. When he stopped beside her and raised his eyebrows expectantly she reached out and gripped his arm.

"John, did you just…?"

He patted the hand on his elbow. "Yes, Lori, I just had a word with an Autobot."

"And you can just… go up and chat?"

"Well sure. They're good people, when you get right down to it. I've only met two of them before- now three- but they seem to be an inquisitive and patient bunch on the whole. I think you'd like them better than you do most of humans you work with, Ms. Secretary."

With her title she recovered both her wits and her hand, glancing at Keller before approaching Sam, who looked immensely relieved. And when she strode straight past him, he appeared immensely surprised. When she stopped in front of Ratchet and glanced back to him, he took the hint. "Oh, right. Ratchet, meet our Secretary of Homeland Security."

She offered her hand out to the crouching robot, staring bravely into the glowing blue optics still ten feet above her. "Loretta Hewitt. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ratchet."

"The pleasure is all mine, Secretary Hewitt." He had wondered at her motives for approaching him so boldly after her exchange with Keller, but her words seemed genuine enough. He took her hand on top of his index finger, leaning over in a mock bow and opting to nod before releasing her rather than to try a more proper gesture of chivalry. Observing her expression, surprised but warm, and the pride in Keller's posture, Ratchet decided that this small human merely harbored uncommon determination. "Given the nature of your occupation, I do not think it is unreasonable to hope that we will engage in further pleasantries."

"Neither do I. Well, I don't entirely know what to say, so why don't I go see if I can't get those old fools to come out of shock."

Ratchet smiled as she walked away. That went well. Listening to an incoming transmission, he cocked his head and temporarily rescued the FBI Chief and Defense Secretary further stress. "Unfortunately, Sam, Bumblebee is getting close and Optimus would like to make his appearance before he gets here."

"Oh, you mean, like now? Sure. So guys, guys and ladies, here's the deal. Simmons there-" he gestured in the direction of the SUV "-didn't do his homework on the Autobots. Or if he did, he ignored it in favor of some weird little ideas he has flying around in his head. So Ratchet here, he's the Autobot medic, right? He fixes them when they get hurt, and intersolar diplomacy isn't really in his job description. So he called their leader to actually talk to you guys- that's Optimus- and he's been waiting for everyone to get used to Ratchet before he drives over here and says hello."

Right on cue the blue and red semi rumbled unhurriedly from the opening in the brush through the clearing, ambling around the black SUV, turning slowly and coming to a gentle stop in the center space that Ratchet had respectfully vacated.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Optimus Prime."

_ZOMG there's more this week because I've hit 10 whole reviews!_


	6. Optimus Interruptus

Optimus Interruptus

Optimus Prime was troubled by the day's events, but had hope for the outcome. Having heard the exchange in the clearing, he believed the Autobots had gained at least one new contact on the human world and hoped that the other two would come around with time. Things being as they were, each and every person he could trust on this strange planet was precious.

It was with this sentiment in mind that he bade Ratchet and Sam speed up the impromptu introductions. He could tell that their usually calm and lovable Bumblebee was coming out of a panic into a rare- and not unwarranted- rage. His ultimate superior knew that the younger Autobot would cool down upon seeing Sam safe, but preferred not to risk letting him scare the humans.

Well, most of the humans. Neither Bumblebee nor Optimus had forgotten how they and their human friends had been treated by former S7 Agent Simmons, and perhaps it was time to set him straight.

So as the Supreme Commander rolled cautiously into view, he settled on a course of action that would benefit everyone.

As soon as his name left Sam's lips he transformed at his preferred, unhurried pace. It had been a while since he left his alt mode, and he allowed his hydraulics a satisfied hiss as they lifted his weight off of his tires. Finally finished, he stood to his full height, gazing down at the transfixed humans with interest. "I have been here for some time, so I already know who you are. I am Optimus Prime: leader of the Autobots. Before we address any of the diplomatic issues at hand, I would like to have a word with Mr. Simmons. If you would, Chief Hiller." His three- foot long silver hand beckoned the man to step aside.

The man in question jumped as if he'd been shocked, which worked out rather well since he'd been leaning on the car door. Now free of the extra weight, Simmons popped out of the vehicle before he could be shut back in. His grin was toothy as he looked down his nose haughtily at the others. "Hey there, Mr. Prime, sir. Long time no see."

"Can it, Simmons." Sam was momentarily shocked to hear the mildly rude command rumbling from the huge, usually polite Autobot. The metal plates around Optimus's optics tightened, narrowing the blue glow as he shook his head, dual pairs of audio receptors whirling in irritation. "All day I have been receiving transmission after transmission that I do not like. First, several human communications I have intercepted indicate that four prominent government figures have disappeared from a youth conference in Los Angeles. Then, Ironhide informs me that Ratchet has gone to meet with you in regards to cases of radiation poisoning related to the battle for the Allspark. Next, Bumblebee is transmitting on all frequencies that Sam and Mikaela are missing in the most broken Cybertronian and English that I have ever had the spark-searing task of deciphering… And finally Ratchet tells me that you are the source of these disturbances." He lifted his red, blue-flamed arms to rest crossed just beneath the windows in his armor, glowering down at the fidgeting human.

"Well, I'm sure that I couldn't have caused _all_ of them…" He shifted nervously.

"You kidnapped four members of your government, a secret agent, and a civilian teenager, stole the communications device of a witness, drove your captives to an isolated location, and tricked _my_ _medical officer _into coming here as the subject of your ill-conceived plot without my knowledge or consent. I am a patient mech, Simmons, but I am through with your repeated deceptive actions, especially when you involve _my _people in your criminal activities. What, in the name of Primus, do you have to say for yourself?"

Simmons apparently had very little to say. "Well you see, sir, I just… and they… but you…?"

Optimus shook his head and his optics flashed dangerously bright as he stooped to stare down the object of his ire more directly. "You will face the consequences of your actions against your fellow humans when these people are returned to their rightful places, I'm sure. But right now Bumblebee is tearing his rotors to see Sam safe and you will apologize to him for causing him so much worry, or neither Ratchet nor Ironhide nor I will stop him from making you regret it short of causing you irreversible damage."

Even in the stark relief of the spotlights Simmons paled visibly. "Alright, if that's what you want, big guy, I'll apologize to the boy's Camaro."

"Good." He rose again to his full stature, much to the relief of Agent Simmons. "Just see to it that you are sincere, or I will not choose to overlook this incident so easily. Causing an officer to leave his post under false pretenses and the kidnapping of another are both punishable offences under Autobot regulations."

Simmons held up his hands and marched forward in disbelief, "Wait just a second; I thought we started over after the Sector Seven thing."

"I was not referring to your abduction of Bumblebee."

"What, you mean the kid? That is _way _out of your jurisdiction, what we humans do is none of your business-"

"Under normal circumstances, I would have to agree. However, Samuel James Witwicky was given the rank and status of an Autobot comrade the moment he faced Megatron alone to defend the Allspark. I have made it our business to keep him from harm."

"So, what? Anyone who ever helped you now has a giant alien protection policy? That's bull-"

The medical officer stepped forward menacingly, cutting him off with an angry slash of his hand- and his circular blade, if one cared to notice it- through the air. "That is _enough, _human. I don't think you realize what you are implying. In all the eons of our existence, no non-Cybertronian has ever been accorded such an honor, and it is an event unlikely to be repeated before every last one of us goes offline." Ratchet looked as furious as Sam had ever seen him. Though he was dwarfed by Optimus's tall frame, he looked much more intimidating when he loomed over them with his hands on his hip-plates, scowling.

Tense, stricken silence pervaded the following seconds, until the roar of an engine exploded out of the brush behind the humans.

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Aw crap, something's about to happen. Cue the Author's notes!

Made-up Transformer of the week! It's Bingo, the old person scooter! He snaps at the whippersnappers with his swift grocery basket jaws of chromed aluminum justice, moving at speeds of almost 5mph! Because I'm tired and my mom can shop circles around me… And because we earned a double, meet Gunk, the automatic fish-food dispenser that hasn't worked right from day one. He'll intermittently overfeed and starve your fish with menace! Because those things just don't work…

Alrighty, casting thus far is like so:

Anyone in the movie- as themselves.

FBI Chief Hiller- old white Will Smith a la _Independence Day _

Secretary of Defense Whitmore- Bill Pulman from the same

HS Secretary Hewitt- my ficly cameo! In my head she's voiced by my mom. Scary lady.

**IMPORTANT HOUSEKEEPING IF YOU CARE ABOUT CONTINUITY WITH TRANSFORMERS G1!**

Hot Rod is Sir Not-Appearing-in-this-Fanfiction! I just want to get that out of the way. Now let me tell you why, because I know and respect that many people love him, though I'm not a fan myself. Hot Rod and Bumblebee were originally two separate characters, Roddy being the strong, impulsive sports car friend of Spike's son Daniel. Bumblebee was Daniel's loyal and sweet but kind of helpless Volkswagen Bug buddy. Now tell me if I'm crazy, but our Bumblebee is now a sexy sports car with guts and guns, and it seems to me like Hot Rod, who only appeared in the old movie and the few episodes where the Matrix was important, was incorporated into Bumblebee's character. It makes Bee a more awesome guardian for Sam and eliminates the need to flesh out Hot Rod's character when he really only had one thing going for him (not counting the pink flames).

I would love some feedback about all of this, with the assurance that I'll be writing this new movie-Bee, not old Bee, now with all of the sick nasty awesome that may have come from Hot Rod. I'll also promise that the twins (because what's TF without the twins, really?) will spread around some extra crazy so we don't miss out on any fun.

Catch the next installment next week if I survive move-in!


	7. The Bee Sting

Woohoo! I've made it to college! And my room is all awesome now. It's quarter of nine (a.m.) and my neighbors are pumping the jams already. Classes start tomorrow, so I'm being a good girl and posting _before _my life turns into complete chaos.

I don't own Transformers or profit from their awesomeness, and I appreciate all of the feedback I've gotten from reviewers.

This chapter is dedicated to my two fat little goldfish, Bee and Bumble, who keep me company in my dorm room. Bee is a smartass orange ryukin who tried turning black for a week, and Bumble is a deformed oranda that always looks grumpy. Together they are an unstoppable destructive force gearing toward total world domination. Be afraid.

The Bee Sting

Bumblebee couldn't get to Sam fast enough, literally. He had been ordered to strictly abide by human traffic patterns except during a declared emergency. For the past several hours on the road, he had pushed the limit of his speed restrictions, flying down the highways and back roads in the fastest way a human might possibly go, uncharacteristically leaving the speed limit behind. What truly burned was being physically _able _to go faster but not being _allowed _to do so. Only Prime's constant reassurance that his charge was safe kept him from blowing a proverbial gasket.

Thus, upon bursting into the clearing and skidding to a stop from an unmentionable speed (the campground was on a private drive, after all) the yellow Autobot's first action was a thorough scan of the area. Heaving a static discharge of relief at finding Sam unharmed and standing with a group of older members of his species next to a normal Earth vehicle- but inadequately dressed for the climate in this area and showing signs of minor fatigue- he turned his attention to the other figure that dominated his CPU.

Finding his target singled out before Optimus and Ratchet, Bumblebee lunged forward. He was so upset and exhausted that he forgot to even change out of his alt mode. He circled Simmons angrily, front tires sliding and rear tires spitting up dirt as he pulled fast, tight doughnuts around the terrified man. Vaguely aware of his leader's voice and the other humans backing away, he emitted a half-coherent string of rude expressions and accusations at the human in every language he knew, each affront screeching out harshly enough to make his speakers crackle.

Slowly coming down from his post-panic fury, and becoming more and more aware of his audience, the yellow vehicle found himself rather embarrassed that he was behaving so callously in front of Sam and Optimus Prime. Feeling his energy, but not his vindictive mood, drain out of him, he stopped squarely in front of his victim, his speakers silent but his engine growling in displeasure.

"Speak. _Now."_ He hadn't quite regained the capacity to be civil to the unpleasant little being.

Simmons was pale, sweating profusely, and shaking from the encounter. He tried to convince himself that at the moment it was just a Camaro, but it was still a terrifying, _demonic _Camaro. Unable to see faced with the bright headlights, he sank to his knees. He tried to stammer out the promised apology, but it wouldn't come.

Feeling some pity for the guy, but more worry for his guardian, Sam cautiously approached Bee, resting a hand on his trunk. "You ok man? I'm fine, and Mikaela's safe; she just doesn't have her phone, and Optimus and Ratchet were here, right? Talk to me, buddy. You're not gonna spaz on him again, are you? Because at this point, that would be pretty uncool."

"No Sam, I won't do that again." He flung open his drivers' door and backed up until it was just in front of Sam. "Let's go home."

Sam shook his head and shut the door softly, patting the roof in apology. "Soon, buddy, but we should finish what we started. This is too good of a chance for you guys to pass up."

Having composed himself somewhat, Simmons moved forward shakily, addressing the marginally calmed Autobot. "I am sorry about borrowing your kid, but we didn't know if you guys would be willing to communicate with us without him here-"

"You kidnapped Sam to use him as a shield, in case we didn't want to negotiate."

"Yes, but I wouldn't have let anything happen to him, I swear. I had no idea you would be… so upset."

"Fine." Still not trusting himself not to become 'so upset' with this human again, he backed himself over to where Optimus and Ratchet were standing, calmly regarding the proceedings and the much-relieved group of political figures with mild interest. He could not, however, help throwing a scan in Sam's direction every few seconds.

Watching his friend join his superiors, Sam crossed his arms and addressed Simmons. "You ought to have asked before abducting me. It would have saved everyone a lot of grief. And it would have saved you a pair of pants."

"I suppose I deserved that one." The embarrassed man looked down, weighing his options, "Alright, kid. You seem to think you know how these guys operate. Why don't you get them talking with the big wigs, huh? That's all I want! With Sector Seven dismantled, there's no government protocol for dealing with the aliens. So it doesn't happen, poof! they don't exist anymore as far as everyone's concerned; no one wants them to. Don't you think that needs to change?"

Sam nodded, "Yeah, I do. And I don't think I need to do much of anything, beyond showing the "big wigs" that Optimus won't squash them. They want to talk; it's getting people to listen that's the problem. Just promise that you won't go around snatching people anymore. That won't help anyone."

"Alright, kid. It's a deal."

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Don't panic, there's another one. I'm changing the way I post doubles: now they'll be separate, but simultaneous. This way **the blumchenkinder **and everyone else who is crazy for updates can review more than once without fisking anyone's rulez (or killing me) and I can keep my files tidy.

I've noticed some formatting issues: sometimes when I have a word italicized in a posted chapter, the formatting vampires suck out the space between said word and the next one and don't italicize the word. I'm working on it.


	8. Prime Words

Still don't own it. Please continue to not sue me. And keep reading. And review. Geez I'm demanding.

Prime Words

Parking himself by Optimus's left foot and realizing he was still disguised as a car, Bumblebee stood up, drawing the bewildered attention of the humans he didn't know. Bashfully meeting his commander's even gaze, his antennae fluttered in embarrassment.

"I am sorry for my actions sir. It was entirely inappropriate." Knowing he had exhibited behavior unbecoming of an Autobot under Prime's command, he rubbed absently at the battle mask that shielded the back of his head, wishing he could just pull it over his face and hide. He was even ashamed to find that he didn't regret intentionally frightening the meddlesome man, except in that he had embarrassed his leader.

Optimus regarded him gravely. "I understand your reasons, Bumblebee, but I am disappointed in your conduct here tonight. Normally I would consider taking you off active duty for such hostile endangerment of a human, but since I have never known you to act so irresponsibly, _and_ with the expectation that you will be more conscientious in the future, I will not revoke your assignment as Sam's protector. We will discuss this at another time, however; I believe we currently have more pressing matters to address."

Bumblebee lowered his optics and nodded, moving behind Optimus and Ratchet but off to the side, closer to Sam, to observe the meeting.

Having been within visual and auditory range of the whole exchange, most of the abductees were politely pretending to be oblivious. FBI Chief Hiller, however, was watching the robot leader with open admiration and muttering to himself, "Now that's how a real man handled things back in the day; none of this pussyfooting around like a soldier oughtn't get angry once in a while… healthy, that's what that is… didn't even touch 'im and made 'im pee himself… just what the doctor ordered if you ask me…" His ramblings were not helping the bewildered Secretary Whitmore to overcome his shock any more than what happened next.

The growl of a powerful engine along with all the disturbances of a large vehicle approached the clearing, a black truck rounding the final bend and pulling up to his comrades, not hesitating to transform in a huff and stomp over to place himself at Optimus's right, shooting an irritated look and shaking a giant metal fist in the direction of Bumblebee, who cringed slightly.

"Prime," he grouched, "I think you ought to have the doc pull out a few of the kid's cylinders. He has no right to be able to haul aft like that. Gave me the slip an hour ago, the little-"

"Language, Ironhide, we have company."

"Sorry, it's just that, if anything happened to him in that state and that far from my cover I wouldn't have been able to save his sorry little-"

"Ironhide, _language."_ Having been thoroughly verbally disarmed, the fuming weapons officer settled for a low grumble ("Prowl would have thrown him in the brig… few cycles in there with the twins would straighten him out…") to express his disapproval.

Finally addressing the small group that had gathered tightly before the looming Autobot quartet, Optimus began. "I apologize for the repeated interruptions, as I am sure you all have places you should be. I, as I have previously informed you, am Optimus Prime. To my right is my Senior Tactical Officer and weapons specialist, Ironhide, who followed Bumblebee here to ensure his safety. To my left is Ratchet, our Chief Medical Officer, whom you have already met. And to Ratchet's left is Bumblebee, our scout and the junior officer in charge of Sam's protection. We are the Autobots, having traveled here from the planet Cybertron. We would like to extend our friendship and protection to the people of this planet, and hope that we can create a peaceful coexistence while we remain on your world."

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Made up Transformers this week: Lightwave, the transforming microwave who boils water at will in order to feed the hungry college students ramen! And his roommate, Roust, the incredible robotic alarm clock! The element of surprise is always in his favor, and his enemies lay awake in terror that he will force them to go to class!

I have this plush Optimus Prime (whose back is velcroed you can turn his torso inside out to make him the old-school truck!) and he's sitting on my bed staring at me. I feel guilty for not being as good as I should be. That guy needs to be sainted already.


	9. Methuselah Prior

I think Wednesday or Thursday will usually work out for me. Thanks for all of the patience and support; getting reviews and trading emails is a blast.

I can't post both chapters at the same time tonight; I have to go to a Japanese House event after I get this one up. So if in the very worst case: that I can't get the second up before tomorrow afternoon, please forgive me and enjoy the cliffhanger!

I still don't own them, I still don't profit from them, and yet I still love them. Transformers are just that awesome.

I do apologize if I've butchered an innocent Latin adjective in the name of fanfiction.

_"…We would like to extend our friendship and protection to the people of this planet, and hope that we can create a peaceful coexistence while we remain on your world."_

**_Methuselah Prior_**

"Well what the devil are you blokes doing here?" Hiller's blunt response launched Optimus into a much abridged summary of events, for which Simmons considerately spun his SUV around and opened the back to use as a seat. With a proper audience, the Supreme Commander discoursed from the desperate launch of the Allspark into space, to their pursuit of the Decepticons to Earth, to the Allspark's destruction in the hands of one Sam Witwicky. Shocked glances took on an awestruck expression as everyone re-evaluated the young man in their company. Uncomfortable from Optimus's praise and the attention of his nation's leaders, Sam immediately found the ground very interesting.

"Thus you must see why we are here." The giant blue and red Autobot again seized everyone's attention with a grave tone. "The Decepticons will likely continue coming to Earth in search of their leader as well as the Allspark. Now that Megatron is destroyed we can count on them flocking here both to exact their revenge and to make their bids for Decepticon leadership. Even if we could escape Earth's atmosphere under our own power, which none of us here can, doing so would leave humankind in considerable danger from attack."

"But what do you want us for?" asked the Secretary of Homeland Security, puzzled. "You've certainly disguised yourselves well enough to blend in, and our firepower hardly compares. You've shown your intentions to fight the good fight whether we know of or support you. What benefit do you see for opening relations with the American government?" She stared up at him keenly, worriedly awaiting a reply from her perch with her colleagues in the tailgate of the black SUV.

There was a quiet groan of burdened metal as Optimus slowly shifted his weight from one side to the other, considering his response. "There are… practicalities, of such a relationship. We do not wish to disrupt life on your planet, but where there is fighting, there will be disruption. I would like to be able to warn you of that danger, if possible. We cannot always avoid collateral casualties when there are so few of us. There are other reasons, as well." He paused for a moment in thought, shaking his head as he began again.

"My people have been scattered amongst the stars for eons, searching for the Allspark, and fighting this war. Most Autobots abandoned Cybertron for the search, leaving only a few to stand guard over a dead planet which can never be revived. The Decepticons will converge on this world, of that I am sure, so I have sent out a call for all remaining Autobots to make their way here also. There are many faces, not seen in millennia, we would like to meet again, but many we will not. When we have gathered here, on this tiny world, and _finished _this terrible war, I believe the remains of our race would do better to create a new home, in the company of a young, vibrant species, than to make the empty trek back to the slag-blackened shell of our homeworld."

As when one is faced with frightening in-laws who suddenly appear and announce "We're moving in!" there are several diplomatic ways to react and many more less-so. Sam was by now numb to the sweeping Autobot declarations that brought him to his posterior as often as their thunderous footsteps. He spent the next moment merely adding Optimus's mysterious power to turn anything into a captivating speech onto his considerable "Things to Ask Bee About Later" list, joining such worthies as "Where does your arm-cannon go when you're a car?" and "How do you ask where the bathroom is in Cybertronian?". Said list had somehow doubled in length since his arrival in Nowhere's Left Nostril, Nevada despite the difficulty involved in defining the length of a thought, which are generally agreed to lack dimensions entirely.

Moving on.

Secretary Keller was surprised, but managed to keep his peace. He tried to compose his thoughts and questions in a diplomatic way, noting to himself to have Maggie get him a lunch date with Optimus- off the record. He needed a better idea what exactly they had in mind before he started making any kind of arrangements.

"Did you say _millennia?! _How old, exactly, are you?" Secretary Hewitt was wide-eyed and looking rather faint, gripping the edge of the tailgate under her for support.

Whatever Optimus had expected, it wasn't that. "That is a very long computation," he paused, head tilted downward, audios clicking and reversing direction every few seconds. His optics flicked around as if focused on something moving around before lifting his gaze back to the tense woman. "My age is roughly one hundred and forty thousand Earth years. A more precise conversion would take some time." His intonation was perfectly neutral; he didn't understand the pertinence of the question. He was, however, willing to exercise patience. Humans clearly placed importance on different things than he.

That fun fact jarred every human present, even the unflappable Sam, whose eyebrows took a vacation to his hairline. Tom Banachek, who had loitered forgotten beside the parked vehicle, took on an alarmed frown and moved to stand by Simmons, who was uncharacteristically speechless.

Just as everyone else was about to open their mouths and say something in response, the whine of an engine was heard and a small, white vehicle jostled into the light of the midnight meeting.

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**teh**** blumchenkinder** expressed interest in that I'm currently building a Wing Zero Endless Waltz Custom model. I'll post a link to pictures when it's finished in all its mechtastic glory.

Oh snap! Would you look at the time? I'll just have to leave you with that one for a while.

Go hit that little blueish button so I have something nice to come back to!


	10. Less Than Meets the Eye!

Okie dokie, everything's under control. Thanks for being patient. I'm glad for the speculation in your reviews; I can't say I didn't hope to tease some guesses out of you folks with that particular ending.

I couldn't acquire the Transformers rights while I was at J-house this evening, nor did I receive any money for writing this since I last posted. sniff

Without further ado, I hereby post this next chapter. Hoorah!

Toyotas! Less than Meets the Eye…

O.o

_"…a small, white vehicle jostled into the light of the midnight meeting…"_

The scandalized, shell-shocked Secretary Whitmore's query came out as a wheezy, panicked whisper.

"How… just how many of you _are _there?"

Again Optimus and in fact all the Autobots went silent as they ran the figures, clicking and chirping to each other as they did. Apparently this was a somewhat more difficult question.

The attention of the little group, however, was centered on the small, white station wagon parked next to the shiny black SUV. Out sprang a well built man of around thirty years, who was somewhat puzzled by the focus directed at the vehicle he'd vacated. Awkwardly he sidled up next to Chief Hiller, also looking at the plain hatchback.

He jumped when the tall, elderly man lurched forward, waving his arms and bleating "Think yer being sneaky, don't you, sitting there all innocent-like. I'm on to you, so why don't you just do your fancy little thing and state yer business like a real man?" With that he crossed his arms and stood back, looking terribly smug.

Looking very much like he would if he were trying to shake a scorpion out of his combat boot, Captain William Lennox addressed the deranged old man. "Mr. Hiller, sir? I think there must be some kind of misunderstanding here; that's not an Autobot."

"Well is it a Decepticon? Somebody shoot the damn thing!"

"Nooo, no. Respectfully, sir, there will be no shooting. It's not a Decepticon or _any _kind of robotic extraterrestrial. It's a Toyota."

"Are you sure about that? It looks pretty sinister-"

"Yes, sir, I'm positive. My wife has had that thing for eight years. She calls it Chloe. I don't think any self-respecting alien robot would put up with being called Chloe for that long."

Lennox threw a glare at Ironhide, who had powered up his cannons and was muttering something along the lines of: "I'll _grumble…_frag…_grumble…_wench …_grumblegrumble__ …_Lola… _grumble-stringofexpletives!"_

"No, I suppose not." Turning back to the innocent white wagon he pointed at it menacingly. "Consider yourself warned, _Chloe._"

Optimus, who was disturbed not only by Ironhide's crass language but also by the fatigue that must be causing the humans to threaten an innocent Japanese vehicle, did his best rendition of throat-clearing. It sounded something like a handful of rocks in a blender, but it worked.

"Regarding our numbers, there are only four of us and three to four of the enemy currently on this planet to our knowledge."

"So it's a deadlock now?" Keller looked extremely concerned.

"No." Ironhide rumbled, shifting around on his enormous supports in agitation. "The match is not even. Two of the Decepticons are of smaller body types and are considerably weaker. They are infiltration and tracking specialists who lack the firepower to oppose us in battle. Even you humans managed to damage them without much trouble."

Ratchet emitted something like a snort; either that or something was crushed in his faceplates. "_Your_ definition of trouble and theirs may have some discrepancies, you gun-turret with legs. Regardless of weaponry, Frenzy can be deleterious even to our mainframes, let alone theirs. And Scorponok is a sizeable threat in that we can't locate him. Not all danger is limited to the battlefield."

"Fine. But with Blackout dead his range is limited. And since Starscream turned his aft into his fore and pointed his jets at the ground, I'd say we're in a fine position to go four against one and two halves. We just have to find 'em."

Optimus decided to take back control of the conversation before the medic and the war machine descended into one of their unsightly arguments. "I understand your point, Ironhide, but without Jazz I doubt we _can _find those three, and frankly I would be happier if Starscream had stayed planetside. There's no telling what he's up to left on his own." With that admission his bickering officers quieted and Optimus, never one to forget an enquiry, again regarded the humans. "Having been separated without means of communication for so long, there is no way of knowing how many formerly of Cybertron are left in totem or exactly where they are. Of the Autobots, death reports place our spark count at roughly one thousand as of our last transmission, though many more have undoubtedly been lost. We can only assume that the Decepticons have a similar tally."

"Only two thousand…?"

"Believe me, Miss Secretary, one Decepticon took out fifteen F-22s all by himself in twenty minutes and then rocketed into space using just his own F-22 vehicle mode to do it! These guys can be _nasty, _and I would notqualify two thousand with "only" when referring to them."

"We once numbered over ten billion, Mr. Simmons. We encrusted our planet, approximately the size of your Saturn, with gleaming cities of metal and crystal. We constructed huge energy rings and communications arrays around Cybertron and two of the other three planets in our system. We engineered a bridge to our geostationary moon and several clusters of planetoids to orbit our sun outside the energon belt. There were then thousands of ships that filled the space around Cybersol, and there was peace. Each of us is as dangerous as you suggest, but most of us learned to destroy out of necessity, not desire. Such a necessity was born from Megatron's treason, and it is contrary to our very programming. We are builders by nature, but those billions who could not learn violence well enough are gone. So do not think that now, when we will never again gather as more than scant hundreds, we are not few."

And with that, seemingly buckling under the pressure of a hundred millennia of grief, Optimus Prime's tall form shifted and shrank into the familiar shape of the Peterbilt semi.

As the other Autobots followed suit the red and blue truck declared that it was time the humans be returned to L.A. under escort by Captain Lennox, Chloe, and Ironhide. It was with relief that the tired elderly folk of the Cabinet and Intelligence agencies piled into two separate vehicles, calling their thanks to Optimus for meeting them and wracking their PDAs to clear their schedules.

Oblivious to the success of the evening, and to the bright yellow vehicle sneaking past the large, black, and probably still angry truck toward him, Sam Witwicky was lost in profound contemplation. It hadn't occurred to him before, but he couldn't recall ever seeing Optimus transform from standard to alternative mode. He was always awed at his other transformation and how repeatedly explosive it was; parts and components veritably _bubbled _from the Autobot leader in waves as he left his truck form, forming and reforming over and over. The opposite effect was… disturbing. It was like he collapsed again and again, turned inside out, compacted, and turned inside out over and over. Sam thought it looked downright painful, from his perspective anyway.

He mentally added this to the "Things to Ask Bee About Later" list.

He was startled out of his contemplation by bright headlights and "Take Me Home Tonight!" blasted as his six-cylinder friend pulled up and insistently opened the drivers' side door. As Sam ducked behind the wheel the clouds above were just being illuminated by the splendor of dawn.

Hell yeah it was Later. As they cruised out of the twisting lane onto an undivided highway, Sam started the Robot Inquisition.

"So what's this about me being an Autobot?"

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Ooooh, we're finally out of the woods! In a purely fictionally literal sense. Really literally I'm still in the woods. Living in the woods, actually. Fictionally figuratively, I'm nowhere near done with the poor guys. I hope you're as excited as I am.

**blood**** shifter**- My magic pirate skull tells me: _"Nay, scallywag!"_ but don't trust him. He's a shameless liar. Just hang in there; stuff will happen.

**teh**** blumchenkinder**- Hold your horsepower, we're not there yet.

Hmmm, who have I made up this week? It's Inkjet, the transforming mecha-printer you never need to refill! That crap is expensive… And the mini-twins, Rave and Blare, my light-up color-changing speakers of doom! If you get cited for disturbing the peace while you are in fact not in your dorm, these two have probably rappelled into your room and thrown a crazy dance party- Cybertron style. Vivant les 80s dance tunes du original TF movie… Booya.

For those who care…

Optimus's age? I made it up. My version of Cybertron? It's largely B.S., but then, so was most of every TF series because the comic made so little continuous sense anyway... Deleterious- wtf, 10-cent vocab?! It's a real word. I swear. My (witty, as ever) chapter titles..? I think I'm funny. I hope I at least amuse you. I'll explain _Methuselah Prior _later, in context.

That's all folks! For tonight anyway. Sleep for the win.


	11. Ironhide's Midlife Crisis

An apology for every star in the sky! I was really out of it the last week. Work and Gundam and ferocious headaches and such. Thus I will probably post a few times this week to make it up to everyone.

I think I've sprained something in my brain. I'll have you know I took my last two Advil and a powernap exclusively so I could stare at my computer long enough to get this up.

Please don't sue me. I don't own Transformers or make money from it. And I don't feel goodL

Ironhide's Mid-Life Crisis

There were many things Captain William Lennox was not looking forward to before the new day was out. He was not exactly looking forward to explaining to the secret agents swarming L.A. what he was doing returning the Secretaries of Defense and Homeland Security from their abrupt disappearance. He was not looking forward to explaining to his commanding lieutenant why exactly he wouldn't be on-base today. And most of all, he wasn't looking forward to explaining to his wife exactly why he had followed his own truck to Nevada in her little wagon in the middle of the night. No, this just wasn't William Lennox's day. And it was only 5 a.m.

After starting the small, Japanese vehicle and releasing the e-brake, he unholstered the walkie-talkie at his belt and put it in the cup holder, switching it back on. "You there, Ironhide?"

"Of course I'm 'here.' Your device is patched directly into my comms," grumbled the irritated truck-impersonator.

Will rolled his eyes, but without any gusto. It was too early. "I know that, but you're in a bad mood so who am I to assume you're listening?" Indecipherable grumbling. "Are you coming along or not? Because I really love my wife and I'd rather not send her an angry alien robot right now."

"I will accompany you on your errand. That fragging drone 'Simmons' will regret it if he tries anything with me on his tail."

"Er, thanks. Just don't do anything conspicuous, I'm sure he's not that dense." _I hope, _he silently added.

"I'll have you know that I was practicing stealth before your genus evolved into Neanderthals. I would not have to transform to take him out."

"That's not being inconspicuous; that's just not giving away that you're a four-story humanoid machine from Cybertron. There's a difference, Ironhide."

"A technicality."

Lennox sighed. "It's too early to argue with your brand of logic. Please just drive friendly."

"As long as he does the same." The irritable mech huffed. He clearly needed to blow something up. Repeatedly.

The politicians in the back of the wagon shared a nervous look. The captain noticed it in the rearview mirror and shook his head. "Don't let him bother you. The old codger's just cranky because he _won't _do anything violent and he knows it." He gave the dashboard a gentle thump, but upon hearing an unfamiliar rattling sound, withdrew with a start muttering something unkind to Chloe. The loud engine following them revved louder and a puff of hot air distorted the atmosphere above Ironhide's smokestacks.

"Old codger indeed! I'm younger than…" he trailed off and that odd staticky Cybertronian whined over the walkie-talkie. "…slag."

"What? Is something wrong? Ironhide?"

"Frag it all, Will; I might be eldest. Give me a _#breem#_"- that word just didn't sound human somehow, and it made the walkie-talkie fritz again- "and let me figure this fragging thing out."

No one in the passenger vehicle had a clue what "this fragging thing" was, so they just sat in awkward silence for several minutes. In a town that was just an intersection of two roads, a Dunkin' Donuts stood illuminated, shining rays of caffeinated hope into the mornings of commuters and formerly kidnapped government officials alike. Both the black SUV and Chloe pulled in and the drivers went to order their morning fuel. Ironhide pulled into the tiny mini-grocery across the street, smokestacks positively fuming with heat.

Simmons looked nervously at the alien truck as he tried to push a door clearly marked "pull." "Is something wrong?"

"I think he's having a hundred-fifty-thousand-year midlife crisis. Nothing to break out the liquid nitrogen for." Will yanked the door out of the shorter man's grasp and approached the bitter-looking girl painting her nails behind the counter.

By the time they exited, carrying armloads of corrected and re-corrected orders to their respective vehicles, Ironhide was poised- very aggressively- to exit the minimart back onto the main road. Simmons was carrying his cartons and bags at arms length as if they offended him, still eyeing the truck with suspicion.

Sipping his chai contemplatively, Will distributed the morning feast of high blood-pressure and arrhythmia and pulled onto the highway behind Simmons. The whole car was on the edge of their seats with suspense. "Well, old man?" Will prodded, "have you figured that "fragging thing" out? Are you older than dirt or what?"

"Vulgarity doesn't suit you, _sparkling,_ and I believe the expression is "_with a greater age index than subatomic particulate."_ The giant robot's jab sounded good-natured however. "I don't understand the human preoccupation with relative age, but being _the_ eldest would be… irksome at best."

"And at worst?" Realizing what she'd said to whom, Loretta Hewitt's eyes widened and clapped a hand to her mouth, bagel falling to the napkin on her lap.

A low growl, "Downright irritating. If Jazz were here, I'd wipe that smirk off his faceplates myself. The clever little glitch rerouted the old record file pathways; would have had to use Prime's clearance to do it. Midlife crisis indeed. This is a huge security breach, and no one ever noticed after all these millenia."

"Ummm, what did Jazz do that's got you so worked up? And why..?"

The giant truck snorted. "Like I know what went on in that sneaky little head. Prime would probably understand, but I sure as the Pit don't. He rearranged our registries so it would be impossible to trace a refitted bot's history back to before the Cataclysm. I'll be slagged if I know why."

"You're rambling."

"And _you're _interrupting. I'm trying to tell you that prewar models like Optimus and I all have a chunk of our age misplaced in the records because of Jazz's hack. He must have been a junior officer, and using _Prime's _fragging clearance! Show-off. I probably wouldn't have caught it if I'd changed my name like the rest of them."

"Slow down, big guy. Whatdo you mean by "prewar model" and "refit"?"

"We'ren't you listening to Prime back there? Or is there a bug in your processor? We weren't made for war. Before the insurrection, Cybertrons- the now outdated, afactional term- were made barely armored and, with few exceptions, unarmed. That changed after Megatron slew the first helpless millions. Even defense specialists like myself were inadequately equipped and had to be refitted or killed. I was one of the first and one of the few that kept my original name, thus I was still able to notice the discrepancies in the records."

"So no one has a clue how old anyone else is."

"No. This applies only to those created before the war started. Among the still-functional that includes myself, Optimus Prime, and at least one Decepticon I can think of. Obviously Megatron would have been in that category, as well as Jazz. Not that you'd ever suspect that from his behavior. But Prime _is _eldest. I am sure of it."

Will whistled in shock. "So only two of you were born in peacetime? That's probably the saddest thing I've ever heard."

Ironhide grunted assent. "Optimus should be approving missions of space exploration and feats of engineering, training his second, filling thousands of new protoforms with sparks, and getting cornered into reciting the History to the sparklings every cycle. Jazz and I should have armies' worth of protégées trained by now. Ratchet might still remember Iacon's dome while there were still pieces of it left, but he should still be carousing around the recreational facilities with 'bots his age instead of clanking around and fussing like an 'old codger.' Bumblebee was Sparked on a planet plated in a hot slag-shell of fallen ships, satellites, and mechs alike. He should have a proper mentor and be doing menial tasks instead of killing his own kind on an alien world. War makes everyone old…"

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When Spud asks for Ironhide, Ironhide I deliver. I was planning to anyway. Sorry if I tend to rant a little about the fall of Cybertron; it always struck me as a very tragic story within the Transformers epic. There's reasons and stuff too. I really need more sleep.

Ummm… Spick and Span! The steamer and vacuum duo that could destroy the evidence of model-building and carpet-cutting from my room. My carpet didn't fit so I cut it into Tetris blocks. Wing has all his body parts now. Still needs wings, beam rifles, and battery pack. I think I need to gut his chest and rewire the light in there.

Whine warning:

My feet are cold, my back hurts, and the dining hall chicken parm didn't agree with me. I'm grabbing some ginger ale and going to bed now. Good night.


	12. Priority One

Alrighty. I'm a massive delinquent but I'm feeling up to some awesome tonight. It is now 9:27 p.m. eastern time. If I get this done by midnight, WHABAM! FF what know what hit its bandwidth.

First I'd like to thank everyone for being superspecialawesome. TB (haha, morbid…) has singleficcedly garnered more love than all of the rest of my life combined. No, that's a lie. Don't tell the twin, she'll freak. 50 reviews in 11 chapters! That's nuts!

I'm gonna glom all of my **responses** together in a free-for-all, ok? To the confused: fear not! You're not the only one who needs an Ironhide/English translator. It'll be cool. I'm decidedly not the caffeine-cultist, Simmons is. Coffee is nasty, though a mocha frappuchino is a lovely beverage. I start my mornings with hot chocolate featuring a tiny splash of coffee or else honey green tea. And I repost whenever you correct my spelling, by the way. I drive myself nuts otherwise. Oh Jazz. What am I going to do with you. Sidefic? Maaaaaaaybe. And sorry, I'm notoriously bad with non-mech names. I should have used wikipedia instead of my memory… is it bad that that's a substitute?

Everyone else, thanks! If you've just reviewed for the first time, that's awesome! If you haven't reviewed yet, think about it! And if you stalk me down every chapter, I guess I just need to write more…

Priority Numero Uno

"_So what's this about me being an Autobot?"_

Bumblebee supposed that it would be too much to hope for a nice ride home answering Sam's sometimes ridiculous but insightful questions. Optimus had, after all, seen fit to let slip a rather tantalizing bit of information that could hardly be ignored. He slowed immediately. There was no point in hurrying when he had this much explaining to do.

Might as well start with the obvious.

"You're not an Autobot, Sam. You are a human."

"But Optimus said-" The teenager stopped pretending to drive and leaned back in his seat to think. "Ok, he said I was given the rank of an Autobot. And the… something else too."

"Status. Rank and status classifying you as a member of the Autobots."

"Cool, what rank?"

"The lowest; something like a new cadet."

"Cool. Can I, like, get promoted and stuff?"

Bumblebee thought about that one for a moment. "I suppose, if you underwent training. Ultimately you won't live long enough to get very far. The reason you weren't told was so you could continue your life as you saw fit, with no extra baggage, as it were."

"Alright, I get it. So I'm obviously not a super-advanced giant robot. But what does all _that _mean?"

Bee paused before speaking. "It means many things. The primary purpose of such a designation being that we are within our own rights to protect you with any means we would use to defend each other. Secondarily, we may share with you any information for which your rank gives you clearance."

Sam didn't say anything for a while. "Are you going to leave me hanging or what?"

"I don't know what you want me to tell you, Sam."

Staring at the ceiling and running a hand through his mussed hair Sam sighed, "Fair. I guess I want to know why you guys… er, did whatever it is you did to do that. Does that make sense?"

"Certainly. You remember when Barricade attacked you?"

"Not something I can forget, man."

"I had been tracking him for some time and knew he was hunting you. Because of Autobot protocol I was not allowed to do anything out of the ordinary, even in your defense, until he was actually attacking you in his standard form. Thus you were chased through Tranquility by "Satan's Camaro," and you sustained considerable damage before I could neutralize the threat."

"Not to criticize my bright yellow savior or anything, but driving around- well, driver-less- isn't exactly normal. I pretty much knew something weird was up by that point. I'm not _that _dense."

"I am and was aware of that. I was able to exercise some… unorthodox loopholes to come to your aid."

"Like getting to Anti-Somewhere, Nevada in three hours? Don't think I didn't catch onto that one. You said you weren't _allowed _to speed either, even in defense of my attendance record."

Not liking where the conversation was going, Bee started steering it elsewhere. "I used similar loopholes to get to you faster, yes. Responsibility for your safety has a higher priority in my personal protocols than obeying traffic laws for human vehicles."

"Come on, how am I more important than your cover?"

"You clearly have no idea how a super-advanced alien robot makes his decisions."

Sam snorted and reclined further. "I've got a few hours of free time on my hands." Grinnning, he added, "Enlighten me."

Ignoring the reference to his least-favorite human, Bumblebee obliged. "To put it simply, we work on an elaborate system of prioritized actions. Under such a system, my cover trumps your lateness, but at the same time your personal safety is prioritized higher than my cover and I act accordingly."

The human made a face. "So everything you do is because of some set of rules?"

Bumblebee mentally rolled his eyes and snapped the driver's seat back into an upright position, startling his passenger. "It's called a thought process. Just because yours is such a nasty biological mess doesn't mean mine has to be. And it isn't as if we Autobots are simple automatons who follow a small set of directives; if nothing else the Decepticons should prove to you that we have at least as much free will as any human. Each of us develops millions of sets and subsets of programs and algorithms that make our minds as unique as our sparks. It just so happens that we generally allow several to supersede the others in a certain order."

"Sorry, you know I didn't mean it that way. Can I ask what number one is?"

"I was getting to that. It used to be that the safety of the Allspark was first and foremost in the processors of every Autobot and even the Decepticons, with few exceptions. For us, protecting and obeying Optimus Prime came second, then defending each other and our planet, followed by ensuring the safety of humans, and so on."

"You guys have a lot of faith in the big guy don't you? I guess now that the Allspark's toast, he's your main concern, huh? Must be tough being babysat by the lot of you. Glad I'm way down there with "ensuring the safety of humans" bit." Sam gave the armrest a friendly jab with his elbow. Bumblebee couldn't feel it, but it amused him anyway.

"For most Autobots, that is probably the case. However, you overlook some key details."

"Uhhh, sorry dude. I'm drawing a blank here."

"For all intents and purposes, we no longer count you with the rest of the humans."

"Right. Well, I'm still nice and cozy in the "defend each other" category."

"For some, perhaps. But you recall a certain handsome yellow mech ruining his paint job to keep you three-dimensional."

"Huh, the bridge thing. But I had the glasses, so that was about the Allspark right? But I did drop them…"

"Optimus is also under considerable pressure to defend himself. You think scaling fragile buildings while Megatron _and _Starscream wait above is less than reckless?"

"Duh, _Allspark._"

Bumblebee huffed. "Catching it at ground-level would have been acceptable. It is known for being indestructible by normal means. And, if it had been about the Allspark, having my feet snapped off in your defense and giving it to you after finally obtaining it would have also been a serious miscalculation. Ironhide or Jazz would have stood a much better chance of keeping it safe."

"Nuh uh, no _way _I'm more important than Optimus Prime, even to himself. And hey, I did pretty good for being chased by five stories of death on legs and four brands of flying nastiness!"

"As I recall, you actually obliterated it by jamming it into Megatron's spark."

Sam froze.

"Your heart rate is unacceptable. Relax now or I'll have to call Ratchet."

He let out the breath he'd been holding. "_Bee!_ I destroyed it! I destroyed Priority One! Numero Uno!" He paused. "Optimus told me to. What the hell?"

"I implemented a clever change of policy, which Prime and the rest of the team decided to adopt upon your rescue of the Allspark and myself from Sector Seven. We decided that our war would have to end here, on this planet, and knew we had to destroy the Allspark to do it."

"I get that, but how do I figure in?"

"Do you doubt that I would die to end the fighting?"

"Wait right there, buddy. You're freaking me out! What does that have to do with anything?!"

"_Do you doubt that I would?"_

"No, you're a brave guy, but-"

"I had it in my hands, Sam! I was the first in thirty-six millennia to hold it, and with one move I could have ended Megatron's ambitions of universal domination and circumvented Prime's sacrifice before any Decepticon laid optics on it!" Bumblebee sighed, then muttered, "I couldn't do it. None of us could have. Not even Optimus. Especially not him, I think."

"Bumblebee...?"

"We needed the Allspark destroyed, Sam; it was imperative that we _not _protect it. It couldn't be priority 'numero uno,' it had caused too much fighting and too much death. But not one Autobot or Decepticon could destroy the thing that gave them their spark. Not a single one of us was willing to give ourselves and Cybertron to extinction."

"Dude, I'm not sure I could have if I'd known all that." Sam slouched in the leather seat, staring at the Autobrand shifting on the moving steering wheel.

"I'm afraid we took advantage of your courage in that respect. And don't tell Optimus I told you this, it's a bit of a sore point for him, but every Autobot will be eternally grateful that your decisive actions spared us Prime. I don't know what we would do without him. And, it may interest you to know that for roughly four hours _you_ were technically Priority One for _all_ Autobots."

"So you're telling me that for four random-ass hours that I spent being chased around with the cube, a thousand space robots were hell-bent on not letting me stub my toe. From space."

"Well, only five of us were in communications range, so no. But it's the thought that counts." Bumblebee chuckled at his friend's feigned disappointment. "If it makes you feel any better, eighteen generally-termed regulations form a brilliant loophole allowing a certain junior Autobot officer to 'temporarily, indefinitely designate his primary objective as the protection of a dependent Autobot of similar or lower rank'…"

"Bee? You're the best bud a guy could have."

"I know. '_You can check on the rep- yep! Second to none.'"_

"I don't suppose you've got a loophole that says I don't have to tell my parents where I was until 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday?" Sam grumbled as they pulled into his driveway, parents dashing out from the kitchen undoubtedly prepared to give him a few decades' worth of grounding. Despite his tiredness and general unease over the whole night's events, his best friend's oh-so-sympathetic response drew a smile to his lips.

"_I say, have a nice day. Have a nice day-ay-ay! Have a nice day!"_

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Ok, so it's not like I actually _stopped _at midnight and actually got sleep or anything. But I got into it and probably confused everyone again going off on unplanned tangents. If you haven't noticed, I'm out of extra chapters. Woohoo! I'm wingin' it!

Projectron! For when you absolutely have to see eighties cartoons on a thirty-foot screen, he's your bot!

I like writing Bumblebee and Sam because Bee is awesome yet sweet and Sam is a spaz.

I maintain that upholstery doesn't feel your bum sitting on it. That would be uber-creepy.

Holy crap, things are going to start happening soon. Everyone do the robot!


	13. Ultra Montage

So I wasn't planning to write today but did. I mean, I would have worked on Wing Zero, but I have everything built. I just need to find that one tiny screw, finish his battery pack, slap it on and attach his wings. Then: pictures!

Don't say I never wrote you a non-tiny chapter, this is probably the longest chapter ever! And it's not even finished, so this will be a two-parter. Have fun.

Don't own, don't sue; please read, and please review!

I disgust myself sometimes.

Ultra Montage

If one could simultaneously see what was happening everywhere in the universe on a given day, one might find a few, isolated instances of minor significance. Somewhere in a nebula a star was being born, and off in another galaxy a group of quarks might have spontaneously spelled out IBM for a nanosecond. On a large, dark planet orbiting a red star there were occasional lights and sporadic waves of energy going from transmitter to receiver. On a small planet orbiting a yellow star a small, fleshy being might be staring at a glowing rectangle for unknown reasons. And somewhere floats a dead machine carrying a golden disc, which, seeing everything there is to bee seen, an omniscient being would immediately identify as the silliest mode of communication ever invented.

Any day would do to bring this much excitement give or take an American Idol finale. Today, however, was one of those rare short periods that would make our everything-watcher crawl back into whatever space dust it emerged from and devolve itself into subatomic particulate out of sheer terror.

It was as if, on this random day, some unfortunate gear in the clockwork of the universe self-pulverized with a hypothetical _SNAP!_ that silently changed _something _in the space of an astrosecond, and suddenly _everything _changed. If only a little. Naturally, being all-seeing since time began, an omniscient, immortal being would notice the minute but total shift in the cosmos. And if such a worthy were to wish to share the source of their dread with a lesser being, he would naturally need to simplify their experience into comprehensible terms.

This naturally entails a montage.

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As Sarah Lennox stood on the porch of her family's home, arms crossed and posture rigid. She ought to have been glaring heatedly and examining her tired husband's explanation of why he had taken her car to follow his own truck into the night without telling her. She should have been furrowing her eyebrows and questioning why Bobby Epps had driven here to borrow the truck so late, parked his car at the picnic spot two miles down the road, and left from there without dropping by, thus leaving her husband to return her car and borrow her road bike from college to retrieve his. She should have been angry at Will for staying out all night and for not calling her. She should be chastising him by now.

But instead Sarah Lennox was staring past her husband at Lola, Chloe's large black driveway-sidekick since a year ago. Distractedly she uttered a few automatic clichés about being glad Will was home safe, that they would have a chat about this later, that he'd better get his ass in gear to shower and then feed Anna and take out the trash- or else, mister! And as he pecked her on the cheek and brushed past her into the house, she not only missed the sigh of relief he heaved, but also missed catching the storm door he held for her, it's old wooden frame clacking back into the frame and ignoring her carelessly aimed hand entirely. Something had finally clicked, snapped, pulverized, or otherwise _changed_ in a subtle but crucial way.

It wasn't _him._ _His_ behavior wasn't what bothered her. She felt that, somehow, neither Will nor Bobby Epps was responsible for her raging migraine. Nothing in particular but everything in general led her to a startling and seemingly random conclusion.

_It was The Truck._

Not a nice, safe "It has something to do with the truck." It just wasn't the same hulking but humorous image of Lola that she had conjured up over the past year sitting in her driveway. And "truck" seemed to lack enough emphasis for how definitive she felt. All qualifiers went straight out the window as far as Sarah was concerned, and only a double dose of capitalization seemed adequate to name the source of the many minor strangenesses in her life, which she had previously attributed to her husband. Any grammar at all seemed superfluous, and italics seemed too brittle to associate with such a monstrosity of metal. Better go with bold.

**The Truck.**

Giving it a bewildered, accusatory look, she fled back into the house to hush a crying Anna until Will got out of the shower.

Later that day, Sarah Lennox approached her husband and, to his utter shock, asked if there were a name he would prefer to call **The Truck** by.

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The five former-abductees were hurried into Hoover Dam, a veritable black wave of Secret Service rushing them through the mostly stripped facilities to a conference room overlooking the empty chamber that had housed the Allspark. A haggard president and a group of tired and fidgety suits were gathered there. As the Commander in Chief swiveled his chair and stared, looking bewildered, into the huge space beyond the window, one of the suits, who looked to be in his thirties, bee-lined for Secretary Keller.

"Tell me you talked to them!" He exclaimed pleadingly, then, at Keller's dubious look: "Sir. I'm with the University of Hawaii Astronomical Department. There have been some… developments and I think we're going to need all the help we can get."

As Keller was about to respond, Tom Banachek cut in. "We are still… no we are _now _on good speaking terms with the Autobots, if that's what you're asking. What developments?"

Sighing in exasperation, he looked intermittently from Keller to Banachek as he talked. "Unidentified falling objects, sir." He rubbed at his watch nervously, revealing a glowing stripe of white on his tanned wrist. "Me and my buddies went out to see the Eta Aquarids on the water and everything was cool. The shower wasn't too good, but we were having a good time. The out of nowhere this big bright one goes shooting west to east in the north." He stopped there, clearly expecting that to explain everything.

"So you went out to see meteors, and you saw a meteor. Is that right?" Keller prompted.

Banachek addressed the older man, "The Eta Aquarids are fragments of Haley's Comet that do fall around now. But they hardly ever enter the atmosphere above the horizon for most of the Northern Hemisphere. For observers in Hawaii to see a meteor in the north, it could not be part of the shower." Keller nodded in understanding.

"Not only that, it was coming in at an angle of almost _nil._ What's weirder, my sister and her friends in astrophysics at U. Texas went out to investigate a meteorite that landed there, and it made huge trench; Randa said it bounced three times and embedded itself ten feet down, but what they found was tiny!"

"And what was it that they found?" Keller inquired, already seeing that his day had again been usurped by alien robots.

"It's a fragment from Voyager II." A woman's voice ventured from the doorway. Maggie Madsen dropped a file on the heretofore ignored conference table. "We just identified it. Voyagers I and II each had a gold record imprinted with data from Earth in case it was found by extraterrestrials. What Jay's sister found," she said, nodding to the fidgety man in front of Keller, "Was the shattered remains of Voyager II's disc and various fragments of the probe itself. Somebody had a collision and a rough landing, if you ask me sir, but there has been no strange activity reported in the area, besides overexcited astrophysicists and a small brushfire. The police and local military have been searching the area but haven't found anything."

"That's all we need. A giant robot having a bad day disappeared into thin air," Hewitt murmured.

Suddenly the President was on his feet. He lurched over to lean on the table. "We've got to bring this place back. We need to deal with this. We need to do _something."_ He waved his free arm wildly toward the window and looked pleadingly to his colleagues.

Keller paused. "Here? You mean Sector Seven? The Decepticons already know about this place…"

"Anywhere! I don't care! If there are more of them- Jesus Christ, how many could there be…?!" The president pressed his hand to his temple, either trying to stem a headache or trying to manage arithmetic.

"Two thousand." All eyes shifted to the little Secretary of Homeland Security and Maggie nearly choked on her hot cup of cider. Hewitt marched forward and planted herself right in front of her boss, staring directly up into his wide, watery light brown eyes. "If we're going to do something about this, we have to do it right. Whether we like it or not, hundreds of them are on their way here from Cybertron and deep space right now. A thousand of them are out to destroy us for ruining their plans and the other thousand are going to make their stand and protect us. A stalemate already destroyed their planet and it would annihilate us in a second. If we're going to make the difference you'll have to grow some balls and put your money where your mouth is. Can you handle that?"

He nodded fiercely. "What do you need?"

"First I want Simmons. The little rat probably knows more about the running of science-fiction secret-bases than the astrophysicist's whole family of astrophysicists." She inclined her head at Jay.

"Done. What else?"

Jay, having caught on, put up a hand before she could continue. "My little sister's a marine biologist."

Hewitt shook her head. "This place will have to work until we find someplace with less traffic and better access for giant robots."

"You want them to come _here?"_

"Yes George, if we want help from the giant robots, we will have to try working with them as closely as we can. Which will include actually meeting and actually talking." Suddenly Mr. President looked rather ill. "Oh for Pete's sake. If you won't, we will. Now, you work on getting me Simmons, and I'll work on getting me Optimus Prime. John?"

Keller nodded for her to continue.

"See if you can get the boys from Mission City here, would you? I think we could use their expertise. And you, astrophysics-boy, think you can use one of the fancy computers I'm sure Tom has stashed around here somewhere to plot the trajectory of that hit-and-run?"

The guy just shrugged. "It's what I do."

"Ma'am?" Maggie tapped Hewitt's shoulder, offering her a little KRZR phone. "Speed dial 1 for Optimus. Glen and Bumblebee figured out how to do it."

A rather impressed Loretta took the shiny red device and put it to her ear. It didn't ring, it just made a rather musical series of chirps, clicks, and squeals before it went dead silent. And out of that silence: "Hello. To whom am I speaking?" No interference. A perfect signal. Well that was different.

"Optimus Prime? This is Loretta Hewitt. As Secretary of Homeland Security, I would like to bring to your attention a recent development in interstellar affairs and request the collaboration of the Autobots in a semi-official endeavor of some urgency." Surprised that she had gotten all that out without making a fool of herself to possibly the oldest being alive, she held her breath waiting for his response.

"A moment." Some odd noises followed. "Autobots, Secretary Hewitt has requested our aid. Please, Ms. Secretary, continue."

"We have reason to believe that one of your people crash-landed-"

"_Made landfall."_

"Ironhide, please do not interrupt."

"But it's not slagging _crashing,_ Prime Crashing is for Seekers."

"Actually, we do believe this one _made landfall _in a very _crash-like _manner. Fragments of a space probe were found in a crater differing significantly from the one's we have already seen from your kind. Unless you are supposed to bounce."

Ratchet hissed. "A collision with a probe would not affect one's entry angle so severely. He must have been damaged already and unable to correct. Any idea who it is?"

"Fortunately or unfortunately, the crash-ee appears to be laying low. Nothing has been reported out of the ordinary."

Ironhide grunted angrily, "That means trouble then. Any injured bot, Autobot or otherwise, would keep a low profile if injured. If he's not transmitting to us for help we've got a Decepticon on our hands."

"Unless he's being followed or has been damaged in other ways. Ms. Hewitt, if you could arrange to have the vicinity of the crash monitored until we get there, we would be much obliged. Ratchet, Ironhide, with me. Bumblebee, stay local."

"And Will?"

"Captain Lennox would be welcome company, Ironhide. This is a collaborative effort, after all." Hewitt could practically _hear _him smiling over the pristine connection.

"The first of many, I hope."

"A shared sentiment, Ms. Secretary. I will call you when we have learned something worth telling. Thank you for contacting me."

"A pleasure, of course. I will keep you updated too, though I doubt we'll find anything more than we already have."

"Excellent. Autobots, roll out! Goodbye, Secretary Hewitt. Prime out."

Hanging up Hewitt turned, grinning widely, to the rest of the room only to find everyone staring. "What?"

Keller smiled and shook his head. "Last night you were afraid to "go up and chat." Now look at you, calling Optimus Prime and getting sarcastic with him for talking back."

"What?! Never! Optimus is a gentleman; I would never be so rude to him. It was Ironhide I got testy with. Landfall indeed, if you like perforating the state of Texas."

"Ironhide? The weapons specialist?" Suddenly Keller looked about as hale as the President. "I think I need to sit down. Remind me to put you in charge of snapping at grumpy, heavily armed robots when we figure all this out."

Standing there for a moment puzzled, it suddenly dawned on her what had her quiet, steadfast brother-in-law slumping next to their haggard Commander in Chief. She'd spoken to Ironhide the same way she would tell Hiller off for making one of his absurd assumptions or rebuff her sister for being fussy. Something had changed between last night and today. Somehow, in such a short period of time, Loretta Hewitt had gone from alienated awe to complete comfort where the Autobots were concerned. This troubled her, but she took solace in the fact that they were not so different that she didn't have any social reactions to fall back on.

A new idea- practiced but never named until now- was conceived in the human consciousness for the first time since Megatron had been found under the ice. That humans and non-biological extraterrestrials were socially compatible was an idea that study could never touch upon and emotional bonds would never articulate.

_This can work. As long as we keep talking, we can keep this thing alive._

And so, amidst the flurry of activity that sprang up in the room around her, Loretta Hewitt wandered over to the pane of bulletproof glass. Seeing not the void left behind by the late Allspark, but a space for humans to grow into together, she grinned.

And now she knew why Optimus must have been smiling.

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So there's a perspective I didn't expect to be writing. Remember, two parts! The montage isn't over!

OH YEAH, I'M A TWIN! She's all blonde and preppy and clingy and she doesn't read fanfiction so I can say what I want but Spud might gossip it to her.

Oh, Spud. YOUR FAMILY! I STOLEZ THEM!

Hrmmm… think robots… I know! I give you Pessimus Factor, my sewing machine! For which bobbins that fit don't exist… He's a good guy at heart, but he's just so picky!

And now I pry the contact lens off my eye and go to bed. Farewell.


	14. Crashes and Burning

Again I wasn't planning to write, but I did. I've discovered some really bizarre formatting problems that I don't know how to fix, but I'm going to try reposting everything. Spaces I can deal with, but when ff starts eating periods, I protest.

I still don't own TF. I love all of my reviewers. And please don't hate me for this chapter pair. (Spud.)

Crashes and Burning

Space, to our omniscient observer, is a typically boring place. Until one nears a significant gravity well there is generally nothing going on. Any tiny particles not trapped and infatuated by some larger mass are slaves to inertia and keep flying in the same direction until something crosses their path.

One unfortunate dust particle, or a supremely lucky one depending entirely upon how you look at it, was having a phenomenally exciting day. There it was, minding its own numbingly boring, linear business and then- WHOOSH! A wave of metallic molecules sloughing off a very fast moving object sent it careening in a slightly different direction. What a ride.

Some time later, a tsunami of this same variety crashed over the hapless piece of space-lint in the opposite direction. Then not one, but _two _such following waves dared toss the little wayfarer into another tumble.

By now one could sympathize with the little space crumb if it were to develop a case of galactic road rage, but the final insult was yet to come. For an unprecedented fifth collision in this little particle's journey was to happen. The offender- surely this couldn't be the very first thing that disturbed it going the other way?!- screamed by at unparalleled speed, emitting a string of radio-wave language that would have shocked and appalled the particle if it had understood. As if in outrage the tiny flake of cosmic dandruff stuck to the super-sonic projectile, unaware that it's great journey would end in the gravity well of a little blue planet called Earth.

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Space-dust aside, having observed the proceedings at Hoover Dam, our hypothetically all-seeing, all-hearing, immortal exemplar would then know that, somewhere on Earth one survivor from Cybertron was having an even worse day. Such a being would already know of that particular refugee's misfortune.

The shaken protoform had barely escaped being seen by a group of small, excited-looking carbon-based life forms. The beaten vehicle they arrived in, an old copper-colored Buick Skylark, was altogether unsuitable for transcanning. Soundwave's orders had been explicit, and this robotic refugee would have to move quickly in order to carry out his objective. More quickly than the ones after him. He knew his pair of pursuers would be making atmospheric entry any time now, and with his sensors damaged he would be helpless to avoid them unless he got a head start.

Finally more cars started arriving. A rather wide array of vehicles, actually; it became something of an all-you-can-scan buffet. As examples of civilian and military transportation alike streamed past his hiding place- an abandoned gas station on a small, bumpy road bypassed by the highway- he finally chose a powerful but more common one and transformed, his stressed joints and servos screaming in protest. Hoping against hope that he had not selected an inappropriate alt-mode, he made his way onto the artery of travel and composed a driver-hologram as nonchalantly as he could.

The life forms in the cars around him seemed to notice him more than each other, which made him nervous at first. He absolutely could _not _fail this mission. Painstakingly analyzing the patterns of traffic and imitating them, he relaxed a few hours later. While there had been several vehicles identical to this one where he had landed, he supposed they were not as common as previously supposed and thus were worthy of minor note.

In a display of newfound boldness he kicked into high gear, sailing down the paved surface more quickly. He had a very special delivery to make: one his enemies would most definitely not appreciate. He mentally grinned at the thought. If his slowly pulsing cargo was what he thought it was, they were in for one hell of a surprise. But it wasn't his business to question his mission; he couldn't now if he wanted to. His job was to succeed.

Cursing how far he had overshot his target due to that misplaced piece of space junk, he tried to ignore the indicators warning him of energy overexpenditure and did his best to mask the energon radiation he knew he must be leaking and went faster.

He hissed in pain as his heat sensors flickered back to life. Despite its protective container, his charge became a hot flare of agony lodged as it was between his engine block and his frame. Admitting that it was better than nothing, he tried to turn his scans outward and ignore the burning pain next to his spark as he swore colorfully to himself. He wasn't going to last much longer at this rate. Curse Soundwave to the bottom of the very Pit, resting was not an option.

A hot-spot moved at high speed at the edge of his sensors, dozens of meters lower and orders of magnitude hotter than anything of the fleshy creatures' creations he had sensed so far. So that's where the digger had disappeared to. He had heard of Blackout's termination, so perhaps the little fragger was still hunting his last target? As usual the scorpion proved a highly inefficient assassin, but an unwaveringly persistent tracker. For which the damaged, speeding vehicle was, for once, thankful.

If he was moving at that speed, Skorpinok knew where he was going, and the unlucky delivery-bot knew he wouldn't last long enough to complete his objective alone without operational scanners. He exited onto a different highway and somehow managed to keep pace with the tracker as he adjusted and re-adjusted his route to follow behind, leaving the wide traffic conduits for long, empty miles of two-lane roads.

Frag it all, he was being followed. Unable to see behind him, his heat sensors told him only that there was someone on his tail. He took a moment to partake in the irony that, when it came down to it, friend and foe looked the same on a heat scan. Then he panicked. Scorponok was circling, and there was another heat signature approaching him from the front, though he could only see a cloud of dust. He'd been headed off.

Finally catching a glimpse of the bright streak rocketing across the desert toward him, he despaired.

_Fine._ _If you're here, I might as well bring everyone down upon us both. I'm probably dead anyway …_

Knowing he wouldn't stand a chance in this fight, he transformed at almost 90 miles per hour, diving into a roll and firing his energon pulse rifle twice at the sky. Upon completing the roll, he transformed and veered off at ninety degrees down a long dirt road, hoping against hope that he could at least hold out long enough to pass along the ball of pain nestled under his hood.

After all, even if he survived, his failure would be beyond forgiveness if he let it come to harm.

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REVIEW! Pleasepleasepleaseplease with a cybercherry on top, review this one! And the next one! They're kinda important…

Shank, the transforming pencil sharpener, is here for all your pencil-sharpening needs. Just don't stab me.


	15. Starstruck Horror

Oh, and ff ate my little dividers too. I have changed them to 7s.

Still don't own TF.

And Spud, please don't hurt me. I love him too.

Starstruck Horror

As the Autobot trio made their way to Texas, they could only watch as things played out along Interstate 40 in the space of an hour. As they neared the border of New Mexico, something streaked out of the sky and landed nearby in the east. Something else entirely entered the atmosphere far behind them. Then another something streaked along at the edge of their sensors underground, heading west. And finally a car that was definitely not a normal car barreled down the westward side of the highway leaking an un-encouraging trail of energon static.

Ironhide was the first to figure out what all the fuss was about. Aside of course from our omniscient observer, who here and now decides he would rather not watch what is to come and puts himself into a deep stasis to wait.

"_**SLAG!!!"**_ Ironhide roared out loud, startling several humans sharing the road with him. He shot over to the left and made an extremely illegal U-turn in the emergency loop. Thinking quickly, Ratchet turned on his sirens and followed, passing him as soon as they got out onto 40 West, cutting off a school bus in the process. Prime opted to hear that particular explanation while exiting from the right and using the next overpass.

"What has gotten into you Ironhide?" He probed as he was passed by a speeding dump truck.

"It's all wrong, Prime! The one who crashed this morning is already moving and so must be whoever just made landfall. It was Starscream that made reentry in to the west of here, I am certain of it. And that was Scorponok underground! They are all converging on one location. We have to intercept them!"

Optimus sighed. "Agreed. Where is their rendezvous point?"

Ironhide released a feral, mechanical snarl that made Will's blood run cold even in the hot May sun. "They will converge at a point 300 meters from my usual post."

"My _house?_ Why the slag are they going to _my house?" _The army captain snatched up his cell phone, anxiously waiting for his wife to pick up while he listened to Optimus on the comms.

"Bumblebee! I need you to go to the Lennox household and get the family to safety. We've got four incoming to that location."

"Yes sir!"

"Ratchet and Ironhide, permission to go on ahead, but don't get too far out of my range."

"Sir."

"Sarah? When you get this I want you to leave immediately. Get as far away from that house as you can, and if a bright yellow Camaro offers you a ride, for the love of God go with him! I'm gonna try your cell now." _Click. _"She's not picking up! She might not be home." He dialed a different number and again got voicemail. "Honey? It's me. Look, I don't have time to talk right now, and I know there's no service between the house and the highway, but _don't go home._ Whatever you do, stay away until I call you, no buts! Call me when you get this." He flipped the phone shut and set it on the dashboard, sighing anxiously as he slouched in the seat.

"I won't allow them to come to harm." Ironhide sounded positively deadly. Despite the icy tone, Will was sure there must be flames shooting from his smokestacks by now.

"I know you wouldn't, but we're too far away. How long until we get there?"

"Forty minutes." He revved higher, tailgating the medic's yellow and red bumper. "Thirty five, if _someone _would get his aft in gear!" He griped.

"Excuse me," Ratchet grumbled, "If not everyone is made with enough spare power cells to run Cybertron for a week. I don't get any faster, but you'd do well not to outpace me anyway."

"Fine. Doesn't mean I have to like it."

The minutes went by, and as Optimus was left further and further behind, their destination finally came into view.

And so did a little white station wagon.

"_Get out!" _Ironhide bellowed as he popped his door and slowed a little. Terrified at what sight might await in the familiar vehicle, still smoking from a missile impact, Will Lennox obeyed, jumping and rolling across the dusty ground. The great black machine tore off the road toward the wreck, other giant robots were already locked in combat somewhere over that way, missiles rained from the sky and flew from the ground, but one William Lennox only had eyes for the tiny spot of white in the ditch beside the road.

And his heart leapt to his throat when Ironhide did not stop by his wife's car. What did that mean? His friend roared toward the stand of scrubby pines by what was once a cow pond where a dust cloud had formed. Was that a flash of yellow? Yes! He could see Bumblebee there now that the dust was settling. And that must be Sam in front of the car… arguing with Sarah! Thank God… Sam was waving two arms, she one. He couldn't see Anna from here, but Sarah must be holding her. She really seemed riled up. _Good. Not that I don't trust him, but that you wouldn't get in a random guy's yellow Camaro. _Will took off in a run toward them, he was too exposed and more importantly he wanted to see his wife. Where had Ratchet gotten off to anyway?

A shadow streaked across the ground. Shit. And suddenly Ironhide picked up speed and Sarah and Sam had stopped arguing and Ironhide was yelling something… It was like images in a strobe. The big black truck flew around in a 180 while transforming, then he was running again, then crouched as if to fire up with that massive incendiary plasma cannon, but he jumped up instead, shooting on a level plane with the flier. Having swooped low to avoid Ironhide's original shot, Starscream took a hit but mercilessly ploughed into his adversary's chest, throwing him backwards through the pines and nearly bisecting him as they hit the ground. Heart gripped in fear, Will ran faster, barely able to breathe as he passed Chloe and dashed toward his wife, child, and large alien friend, staring at the broken mass of metal as it began to move.

Starscream was transforming and getting up.

Ironhide wasn't.

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So now I'm risking a late-night freak-out from my best friend. Feel free to share in the freaking, but no more tonight. I meant to leave it at "_And so did a little white station wagon," _but I need to make a perspective change now and it would be awkward to split it up that way. I intended this stuff to happen over two or three separate events, but then this "Day of Hell" idea came to me after everything started mooshing together in different ways.

Tell me what you think while I write the Geography paper I've been procrastinating.

Beltout, the karaoke machine, is a dangerous foe for one reason. He records every terrible singer to pick up his microphone and plays it back to his foes to force them into surrender.

Toodles.


	16. The Grim and the Grave

Because I'm not _that_ mean and I'm actually in quite a bit of suspense myself, I'm posting again. I confess that I've only decided a few of the outcomes of this particular fight, and the rest will pretty much happen as I type it.

Brace yourselves, it's another serious one.

I don't own Transformers yo!

The Grim and the Grave

Starscream, still unaware of how badly he had terrorized a tiny, well-characterized speck of floating space minutia, had not stopped swearing since he had heard the booming transmission that had echoed across space. He had not stopped mentally damning Soundwave and Shockwave to the Pit in every way he knew since he had nearly caused his spark to punch a hole through his body; such was the ripping force of inertia triggered by the single fastest direction reversal he had ever executed.

Before things got more out of hand, he decided, the Autobots would die. _Today._ And then he would again leave the atmosphere and return to Cybertron- curse the slag-scorched planet where he was sparked!- where he would proceed to rend Soundwave and every one of his traitorous underlings spark from body until they saw reason.

With this in mind he dove to intercept his prey.

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Upon reaching the location from which they had seen shots fired, which had been their destination anyway, Ratchet re-evaluated his options. When Ironhide took off to attend the family he had grown so fond of, he was not particularly surprised. Assured that, with Ironhide and Bumblebee to protect them, the humans would be safe, he focused all his scans on the actual fighting.

Scorponok, who had been circling the Lennox house, had taken off after Ironhide and Will. Ratchet would leave that to them; Ironhide possessed weapons that would be effective underground and he did not.

Two mechs were fighting some distance to the north of his location, so he approached cautiously. Actually, 'fighting' proved to be an inappropriate term, and Ratchet immediately revised his opinion of the situation. One average-sized bot in vehicle mode was leading a much larger one on a desperate chase through the desert, using his greater speed and maneuverability to his advantage. He caught glimpses of the larger one intermittently effecting partial transformations in order to shoot at the smaller, but there was so much dust whipping around the arid battlefield that he couldn't make out what exactly transpired.

He approached more boldly, able to assume that both alt-modes, at least, were as unarmed as his own. The smaller combatant was undoubtedly the disguised robot who had passed them earlier on the highway, still leaking a lot of unsightly radiation. So much so that it was a health hazard. Unconsciously Ratchet found himself listing the apparent malfunctions being suffered by the poor fool, not the least among them multiply-ruptured energon nodes in his power cells. If not brought back into containment, such a leakage would cause the bot to succumb to shock and a complete system failure. Ratchet had cause to wonder why there was no distress call on the airwaves.

His musing was interrupted by the sound of a crash far to the rear and the ground shaking under the impact. Had Ironhide brought Starscream down? He transformed and turned around too get a look above the worst of the dust cloud.

What met his wide optics horrified him. Ironhide was embedded into the ground, and Starscream was blasting back skyward to take unhindered shots at the huge prone form already spitting blue sparks…

Ratchet mentally congratulated Bumblebee on his quick thinking. A shot at the cow pond had evaporated its contents, and practically vaporized the surrounding flora. Combined with liberal cover fire, Starscream would have to fight for a chance to shoot at anything. But then Sam was yelling "_Look out, Will!" _and then Bumblebee had his hands, his cannon, and his face full of Scorponok to protect the group of unarmed humans, and Ironhide was open yet again.

_**SLAM!**_

Before Ratchet could even move to lend a laser-pistol a huge form hit him at full tilt from behind, knocking him to his knees, his gun falling in front of him. He turned to get a look at his attacker and it occurred to him- hadn't that dump truck passed them on the highway before? As he stumbled to his feet the massive form reorganized itself into the solid, bottom-heavy shape of Long Haul, his face contorted into a sneer of frustration and manic rage.

Hurtling forward on his massive legs, he kicked Ratchet's comparatively meager supports back out from under him. His left knee crunched and sparked in a most unencouraging manner, and to make matters worse, the aggressor raised one arm to strike at the medic. Said appendage and its twin were short, but the shell fitted over each fist formed a heavy, super-heated pickaxe. "I'm tired of chasing that fragging coward around in circles. How about I punch a hole through your ugly chassis first?!"

As the blow came down upon the immobilized Autobot, Long Haul made an unexpected turn to face the roar coming from his left. Even as his pick buried itself in Ratchet's shoulder, surely splintering his frame and puncturing the secondary energon line there, the Decepticon was tearing his hand free to catch hold of his original opponent, who was erring so far as to attack him from the side. As he initiated a firm grapple on the irritant, he unexpectedly found most of his weight pulled off the ground, one foot even kicked backwards so as to make him fall forward.

"Fool!" Long Haul laughed, allowing his full weight to fall unchecked on the suicidal mech's chest, which earned him the _crunch _of crumpling armor and a tortured screech from the victim he and gravity so gleefully shared. "Now you-"

He never had the chance to finish his declaration over the high-pitched whine that sounded behind him. Ratchet was quite disgusted that the Decepticon thought so little of him as to turn his back, and remorselessly proved himself the efficient killer few acknowledged him to be. Four swipes of his saw and Long Haul was rendered immobile, unconscious, unable to transmit, and leaking energon at a rate that would have him permanently offline in minutes. C'etait la vie.

Knowing he couldn't help anyone else if he wanted to, Ratchet set grimly about limping around the gray, dirt-encrusted hulk and sawing away at its joints. If he was going to get Long Haul off of his badly injured savior, it would have to be in pieces.

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Since it's actually looking pretty likely (O.o), I thought I'd just put it out there that, if TB makes it to 100 amazing reviews, I might just die of an awesome attack. And write a 10-page block of chapters in celebration, as induced by said awesome attack, no doubt. (As of this chapter, this story is 41 pages total.)

I've been looking at military vehicles (yeah, be afraid) and I've found some good ones for use in my story. Others… not so much. Like the M60A01 Armored Vehicle Launch Bridge, or AVLB. It's pretty much a tank with a 60-foot extendable drawbridge folded up on top of it, to be deployed over… stuff you need a bridge to cross over. I call him Traversion! When you need to cross stuff right now!

I'll figure out what's up with Ironhide eventually…


	17. The Bee, the Scorpion, and the Snare

A note on the French: …yeah. You caught me. Je ne peux plus parler, parce que maintenant mon japonais est toujours embrouillé avec mes autres langues, mais je peux toujours (pour la plupart) ecrire, lire, et comprendre. I haven't taken any French in two-and-a-half years, but I do recall that the imparfait is also the "literary tense," which one uses for seemingly no reason in works of literature similar to the way we write in the past tense. But my French now comes with a vague _feeling _as to what verb form I use rather than a solid handle on the rules. I'm quite rusty.

**Bluebird **and **Yenasira: **Glad you enjoyed that as much as I did. I think a dose of fear is healthy when dealing with an offended Ratchet. He really knows what makes you tick… and how to stop it.

**teh: **You are the unholy bane of my spellchecker, but I'm glad you can appreciate the morbid humor late at night.

**blood** **shifter:** Things will clear up when I get over all the mysteriosity… I hope.

Transformers doesn't belong to me! But review anyway!

The Bee, the Scorpion, and the Mech Who Stopped Time

Bumblebee desperately wrestled with Scorponok, trying to disable him so he could keep Starscream off of Ironhide. On the one hand, he needed to free himself to help his superior, but on the other, he couldn't release Scorponok or he would go after Captain Lennox again. He never thought he'd end up in this position. Not 'position' as in stumbling around with a mechanical scorpion latched onto his chest trying to rip his face off. That was just an occupational hazard.

Ironhide was the proverbial rock of the group. He could always be depended on as completely unmovable when he decided to hold a position, either in battle or an argument. Often enough he had been referred to as a gun turret, a fixed shield of heavy artillery, in that respect. That he had let himself be flying-tackled five-hundred meters across the open desert- that scared the living spark out of the yellow bot.

Suddenly Scorponok was hit with a barrage of white-hot projectiles to the head. He dropped off of Bumblebee, screaming and desperately trying to get underground as the yellow mech planted his foot squarely on the tracker's shortened tail. Impulses of relief flooded his systems as he saw the large red and blue vehicle coming up the road through the shredded remains of his battle mask.

Until he saw the telltale shadow preceding it, and his sensors notified him of incoming missiles, at which point he panicked.

Dashing away from the writhing scorpion, Bumblebee dove to shield the four humans left in his charge from the projectiles from above and the flying chunks of rock and dirt exploding from the ground around them. His right leg buckled as he took a hit to his lower back. His joints groaned with the effort of not allowing himself to fall forward and crush Sam and the Lennoxes. He could hear a rapid succession of thunderous booming through the explosions of the missiles. _Please don't let Ironhide be hit! _ But he dared not look up to investigate while the deafening roar of jet engines was so close. Seeing Sam peeking, slack-jawed, from under his arm toward the fallen soldier and the source of the noise, he finally took the chance and straightened just enough to turn and see…

Then he witnessed an image that would be forever laser-engraved into his memory banks.

The entire world seemed to have frozen, the jet engine a static background noise to the words of his leader and idol, which were the only indication that time was still moving at all in the span of nearly a minute.

And for the first time ever, even since he was sparked as a small, helpless life-form looking up at a huge, strong one, Bumblebee felt fear toward Optimus Prime.

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O.O _meep._ Way to not actually describe what happened, dumbass(me)! And I totally failed to save Ironhide yet again. Maybe next time, if he's still alive after all my digression… (runs away to cry.)

So that was a short one of more characterization and a **GIANT FREAKING SETUP. **Next time on Transmission Breakdown: all the stuff I've been vaguely alluding to but not actually explaining! _ALL of it! _I promise. It will be such a chapter that I must first reread, edit, and repost everything before continuing, meditate on it under a waterfall for a year, and then sacrifice a philosophy major every day for a month-long celebration in its name. So expect it sometime next week, when I've run out and gotten Transformers in Hi-Def and the soundtrack to commemorate the occasion.

In the meantime, enjoy Brewmaster. He's the mecha-coffee machine who _always _gives you that double-shot of energon in your morning joe. I think that must be what my mom drinks. Crazy morning people and their crazy mecha-coffee.


	18. Reach for the Star

So I just decided to write a giant, epic chunk of new stuff into this chapter. I hope it works for you guys; I'm rather proud of this one.

I've spent too long on this already. Responses later, I promise.

I don't own Transformers! And I love reviews!

Reach for the Star

_Reach you for the stars, wise Tane_

_Snatch one down, exceeding vain…_

Carefully Starscream had transformed, prying his legs free from the larger mech's mangled, sparking abdominal section. Having clambered rather awkwardly off the twitching mass, he launched himself back into the sky.

Every inch of his frame resonated painfully with the jarring impact it had endured. Frag; he expected that kind of thing from the pair of mentally infirm twins in the Autobot ranks, not the tactically-minded, battle hardened weapons officer. And what in his schematics allowed him to jump like that anyway? Everything seemed wrong, and Starscream felt uneasy.

As he waited for the smoke, steam, and incendiary fire to clear below him, he reviewed the events in battle thus far.

First, Soundwave's latest failure comes blasting up the road already on the fritz and takes on Long Haul in a one-on-one game of cat-and-mouse. Second, rather than shooting at him from the relatively safe ground, the rusty, old, cannon-toting freak decides to encroach on _his _territory to snatch him out of the sky. Stupid as it was, Starscream had to admit that his structural integrity wouldn't be able to handle excessive acceleration for some time to come. Then little yellow idiot actually grabs and holds onto the thrashing, whirling mass of blades that is Scorponok, allowing his armor a thorough shredding rather than dislodging the frenzied creature. And finally Long Haul has the inexcusable lack of foresight to turn his back on a fully armed enemy just to terminate the rapidly weakening prey assigned to him by Soundwave. And of all mechs, it is the _medic _who does him the favor of rearranging his circuitry.

Starscream was beginning to feel that, especially under the circumstances, he was the only sane 'con left in the whole, wide universe. And _that _was an extremely unnerving thought, because if _everyone _had truly lost their senses, he would have to kill every last one of them. Which was a messy business indeed.

Feeling somewhat more aeronautically stable, Starscream dropped low to the ground and slowed to strafe the distracted scout and the pile of mangled artillery. Best start picking them off before they regroup.

Sensing the Autobot leader as he transformed within sensor range and fired upon Scorponok, the Seeker rained down a full-scale projectile assault. It would become much more difficult to maintain a heavy attack pattern if Prime established a defensive position near his targets.

Slag, the junked weapons' specialist was trying to raise one of those cannons, and that nuisance Prime was approaching rather quickly, no doubt hoping dig in and pelt him with fire from that nasty beam rifle of his. Can't allow that, now can we? The Air Commander transformed and poised himself to attack, hovering over Ironhide. He got off two direct hits with energon missiles before his proximeter started giving him warnings. What in the Pit could have a locked trajectory on him? Neither Prime nor the brat possessed any…. _Slag!_

Was Prime-? He was! _Prime _was fragging _charging _him! Forgetting everything else, Starscream transformed and desperately tried to get out of reach. There were a few moments when, were it not for the terrifying, thunderous crashes of the giant Autobot's footsteps, Starscream would have been sure he couldn't be caught…

_CRUNCH!_

Panic flashed through every atom of the Seeker's being as his world came to a complete halt. The massive hand that had clamped down on his tail end crushed one jet, still spurting super-heated, flaming fuel as he desperately tried to break free with the other one, but Prime held fast, countering the flier's thrust with his sheer mass and powerful hydraulics.

Daring to look behind him, Starscream's optics were met with a fearsome sight. Battle mask in place but definitely hiding a fierce scowl, Prime's optics told the Seeker everything he needed to know about how very slagged he was. Tightened to mere slivers of white-hot rage, they bored through every sensor on the Decepticon's grid and betrayed nothing but deep-seated ire. It was a look Starscream had seen on several occasions, sometimes even directed at him, but never had it frightened him so much as it did now on Megatron's docile double. It was a look that meant no games, no hesitation, no mercy.

In his experience, that look meant death.

His engines flagged and sputtered with this realization, keeping just enough tension on Prime's grasp that he was not pulled backwards. As their roar quieted somewhat, he suddenly heard that the Autobot was speaking.

"-is gone and Megatron has been defeated. Is that not enough? _Will you not stop until every good thing in the universe has been vaporized by your missiles?"_ His fusilage squealed as the enraged, subtly trembling Autobot Commander squeezed harder. Metal was sizzling as it melted, but Starscream couldn't tell if it was his tail or Prime's hand…

Suddenly he was yanked several feet backwards, and Prime looked right up through the heat of his complaining jet at his captive, optics narrowing to razor-thin slivers of blinding brightness and voice darkening to a low, spark-quaking rumble.

"I will say this as many times as it needs to be heard, Starscream, and you had better think it over well because I _know_ you are smarter than you have been given credit for. This war is _done._ There is nothing left for us to fight over!" He gave the seeker a shake. "No recruits, no Allspark, and none of Megatron's delusions of grandeur. _Nothing_. And if _anyone,"_ he shook him again, "tries to send us over the brink of extinction with more senseless murder, I will send them back to the Matrix myself. And if _you_ don't unshutter your optics and see how much we have lost, and what we can still save, I will not hesitate to take away the very spark I gave you. And that, Starscream, would be a terrible waste."

And thus we can finally see the image that was to make our omniscient friend force himself into deep stasis on the spot; whether because he wanted to avoid seeing a very messy execution or for deeper, more omnipersonal reasons, only Primus knows. Bumblebee too saw this and choked out a squeak of horror, similarly shaken to his very core.

The pair could have been a statue or some terrible modern sculpture left to stand, eternally locked in combat, on the impact-pocked desert like a depiction of some cruel and ancient, futuristic myth.

So powerfully braced was Optimus Prime against the Seeker's thrust, which had dragged him forward several meters and left two deep gashes in the ground, that he seemed rooted into the very Earth. His forward foot had forced slabs of packed dirt to jut halfway up to his nearly-doubled knee. His other, like a massive, leaning but fixed pillar, was planted what seemed like miles behind the rest of him. Parallel to this limb, a colossal fist was flung backwards as a weight or a devastating weapon to counter the captive of its twin.

West of the observers but east of the mountains and the early-setting sun, the still but strained silhouette was all the more terrible. The lone jet burned like a weak blue candle under the golden-pink glow of the sky. Plumes of blazing fuel burst like solar flares against the black space of the mountains, flecking the severe metal Titans with globs of liquid fire. An angry red glow emanated from the crushed engine and the hand that had grasped it such that the two shapes seemed to have melted into one. This red-hot glare slowly spread up the angular shape of the flier and down the arm of his captor, threatening to engulf them both.

But in the light of the setting sun, the jet of flickering blue, the blaze of flame taken flight, and the smoldering of superheated metal, the brightest and most terrible lights to be seen were two razor-thin slivers of enraged, white-hot radiance. They threw into sharp relief angles on the face of the seething Colossus that, once familiar and kind, now seemed altogether alien and malicious as they lacerated the senses of their prisoner. This was not Optimus Prime as anyone knew him.

_And for the first time ever, even since he was sparked as a small, helpless life-form looking up at a huge, strong one, Bumblebee felt fear toward Optimus Prime._

For a moment, Optimus merely glared threateningly at the shocked-silent Seeker. A squeak sounded somewhere off to his left, suddenly breaking him out of his fury and leaving him emotionally disoriented. His reflection, shimmering on the melting surface at which he gazed, caught his attention. Immediately he recoiled from the startling sight, but the optics he turned toward a petrified Bumblebee were wide, blue, and blinking in shock.

Taking his chance, Starscream blasted his jets as fiercely as he could, literally tearing himself away from the hand to which his outer skin had fused. No one even lifted a weapon as he escaped in a pathetic, wobbly corkscrew. Bumblebee's gaze was fixed only on Optimus, and Optimus was staring distantly after the Seeker as he absentmindedly retrieved his feet from the deep rents they had torn into the earth. His scorched hand was still raised as if trying to grasp what had just transpired.

It was Ratchet's irritated voice over the comms that broke the dead silence. "_If you're all quite finished, I could use some help over here."_

_Reach you for the stars, wise Tane_

_Snatch one down, exceeding vain._

_Your airs desert,_

_The heavens invert;_

_In face of saint, Berserker find,_

_Let kindness be cruelty, and cruelty kind._

I haven't written any poetry in a long time, but I came up with the first two lines to use as the title and it kinda got stuck in my head. So I ended up expanding it into a complete poem. I referenced a Polynesian myth about the Pleiades star cluster if you want to go all Googly.

I had a funny idea. What if a Gundam (non-sentient mech with a human pilot), or any robot, got hit by the Allspark? That would be really weird. He would transform into… a robot! Wait, how is that different…? O.o

Coldsnap is my mecha-refrigerator/ freezer unit. He keeps stuff cold and stuff! Hit the blue button already!


	19. I'd Like to Buy a Rhymes with Vowel

So I promised, and so I have delivered. Mostly. You'll see what I mean.

I still don't own Transformers!

I'd Like to Buy a… (_Rhymes with Vowel)_

Over the millennia Ratchet had developed a habit of asserting post-battle authorities he technically didn't have. Which is why, when he barked out that Bumblebee should go help Ironhide, he scurried dutifully off. And it also explains how, when he demanded that Optimus assist him in moving the partially dismantled Long Haul, Optimus came obediently and without question. It had been this way for ages and not even the twins had the gumption to question Ratchet's orders when there were lives to save.

So it might be viewed as comical that, when scolded by the dust-covered medic for willfully damaging his hand, the usually-aloof and mysterious Supreme Commander and Honored Templar apologized profusely for his carelessness. He immediately proceeded to work on shifting the torso of the large, heavy Decepticon off the injured party at the medic's bidding. It was really just business as usual; for now Ratchet's authority was deemed superior, and his commander gladly submitted to the inglorious grunt work.

A discouraging screech could be heard as Optimus obliged.

"Careful! If his chest struts are crushed any more, the leaking energon will damage his spark casing."

Optimus shifted the grip of his good hand, applying more force to lift his burden. "My apologies; this is heavier than I had anticipated."

"Yes, looks like the big idiot had a layer of super-dense Arcturian alloy fused to his armor. Fragging stupid if you ask me; he must have needed his frame constantly realigned to compensate for the strain."

"Like everything, I suppose it is a matter of cost and benefit." Having moved the blocky torso off of the pinned mech, Optimus let it drop to the ground with a relieved grunt, twisting his paralyzed, hooked hand from its grip on Long Haul's armor.

"Hmmm, doesn't seem to have been worth it, does it now?" Staggering closer to the dust-encrusted, unconscious mech they had freed, the medic crouched over him. "Frag! Optimus! Come see; he looks like he's been put through a recycling unit and dragged through the Pit but…" As the larger bot moved to loom over the medic's shoulder, Ratchet reached out to examine a large, incongruous patch of metal welded to the prone form's chest. "What in the name of the Destroyer…?"

He activated his laser-scalpel and just as he was about to incise along the seam of the curious plate, his patient's optics flashed online and Ratchet suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a laser pistol. "_Touch it and I'll offline you so quickly you'll have time to detect the hole through your CPU,"_ came the cold, steely rasp of the Cybertronian threat.

The medic scoffed, looking more insulted than threatened. "_Like you're in a position to argue._ _And it's nice to see you too, Prowl."_

The blue optics staring up at him were flickering weirdly and constantly refocusing. That wasn't a good sign. But they momentarily widened in recognition, though the weapon remained where it was.

"_Ratchet?"_ The medic frowned immediately in concern. Not only did the bot not sound certain, he didn't seem to register the looming form of Optimus Prime behind him. "_All of my incoming is down except for visual and thermal, and my optics are beginning to fritz. I can't hear you."_

Well that answered that question. Ratchet muttered, "When I get your systems back up, you'd better explain what in the Pit is going on here…" He reactivated his scalpel and went back to the seam he was about to open. The muzzle of Prowl's weapon was subsequently withdrawn from his facial proximity.

And promptly shoved against the armor guarding his good shoulder.

Well that didn't bode well.

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Heheheheh. Thought he was a baddy didn't y'all? In any case, I assure you that Soundwave's orders were _extremely _explicit and his enemies will absolutely _hate _the little goody he's got stuffed in there somewhere. But why the hell is he still menacing Ratchet? They're buds! I don't know, I only write this stuff.

My meanness doesn't stop there. I whacked a Big Mouth Billy Bass (don't own those either) with the Allspark. And look; it's Bassline! He sings. Badly. And uses an electro-fishing hook to screw up your electronics. Big deal.

Lemme read over my next chapter and see if it's ready for posting with minimal editing. I've got a froofy gender studies paper to write. This would be a great time to grab some ramen… or, you know, REVIEW! (Please?)


	20. Prowl in the Big Blind

I still don't ownz teh Transformers!

I'm really sorry about that disclaimer. It's just that writing the same thing every chapter makes me crazy. Crazy enough to wrestle my spellchecker into letting me write "teh" again and again. _That, _**teh**, is why you are the unholy bane of spellchecking. Autocorrect. It's _evil._

"_And [Prowl promptly shoved [his laser-pistol against the armor guarding [Ratchet's good shoulder._

_Well that didn't bode well…"_

Prowl in the Big Blind

"_I have no desire to carry out my original threat, Ratchet, but continue your course of action and I _will _render your right arm as useless as your left."_

Livid, the medic thrust his face directly in front of his uncooperative patients,' his headlights illuminating his face strikingly. "_What is the matter with you?! _You are leaking copious amounts of energon radiation! It has already crippled your sensory grid and communications systems! If I don't restore your containment-" Ratchet suddenly found himself with a face full of the butt of a laser pistol, staggering back and assessing the -fortunately minor- damage to his visage.

Prowl, the proud, honorable Chief of Security, had actually, intentionally pistol-whipped him. "_Shut up! I still can't hear you, you know, but we clearly agree that I don't have time for this!"_ Clutching his chest, Prowl dragged his barely-responsive body off of the ground to face his longtime friend.

Who had to be prevented from grabbing and shaking the "Stubborn construct of a glitch!" by Optimus who planted himself neatly between the two. Prowl nearly jumped out of his armor when he identified the giant hand on his shoulder. "_Optimus Prime? How long have you been here? Never mind; I have the item just as you requested it, sir. But I refuse to relinquish it until I am brought to Jazz. I _must _see it safely to its destination."_

Optimus blinked in surprise, his cooling vents cycling a large volume of air as he leaned back to absorb the information in amazement. "Bumblebee…" he murmured as he opened the general comm. link, "Prowl is here, but his sensors are out. I want you to get a head start leading him back to Tranquility while Ratchet and I deal with Ironhide."

Bumblebee's surprised voice answered him immediately, "Yes, sir. But Ironhide is badly mangled. I've patched most of his leaks but there is no way he'd be able to move. Field repairs just aren't going to be enough, sir."

"I've already made arrangements to move him. We will probably catch up to you en-route, but Prowl will go into total shutdown before he gets there if he doesn't leave soon. Just lead him where he needs to go."

"Understood."

Ratchet furiously plucked the slag-stiffened hand off his chest and flicked it back toward its owner. "He shouldn't be moving at all in that condition. If you'd just let me stop the radiation leakage-"

"That's not my call; it's his. He will make it the rest of the way to Tranquility, correct?"

The medic grumbled, "_If _he manages to transform, and doesn't strain himself more than he already has, he would probably make it in alt mode seeing as he hasn't already succumbed to energon shock. But he could lose the rest of his sensors mid-way and, depending on how much he has already exceeded his safety limits, his systems could go into emergency shutdown at any time."

"I think those are odds he would be willing to take, given the circumstances." Optimus turned back toward the road and gestured for his subordinates to follow.

Ratchet shot his commander a glare. "Whatever he brought you had better be worth his life, or I may not be inclined to fix that hand of yours." And with that, he stalked off with a heavy limp toward his unconscious, and therefore much more agreeable, patient. He muttered and glared at a very deliberately innocent-looking Bumblebee as he hurried past in the darkening desert evening, Sam in tow.

Settling into position beside the smashed black Autobot, Ratchet huffily started his saw and raised it to hack off the twisted remains of armor that were in his way.

"Cool it, Doc," Ironhide suddenly rattled, "'S not a toy." Something crunched in his neck as he tried to lift his head.

"Stop moving, or I'll override your battle protocols to shut you down," Ratchet snarled.

"Just sayin'… I don't want you chopping me up angry," There was a strained creak from Ironhide's crushed abdomen as he let his head flop back into the dust with a thud.

"Yes, well, next time you throw yourself in front of a strafing Seeker I will endeavor to be more cheerful." He spat sardonically as he started buzzing away with his saw. "And by that I mean there had better not _be _a next time. Unless you would prefer I recalibrate your knees while I'm at it?" He smirked fiendishly and brandished his laser to emphasize his threat.

Ironhide convulsed with what might have been a chuckle before Ratchet severed something in his neck with said laser, causing him to fall limp like a broken toy. A very large broken toy. "Are you kiddin'? No way 'm doin' that again. 'S too…." Ironhide trailed off and his optics went dark before he could finish.

Ratchet shook his head, "Finally. Old models…" he muttered, as he ran more diagnostics and started rummaging around in Ironhide's innards, occasionally cutting a scrap of metal with his laser-scalpel or welding wires together with his equally cool laser-welder.

He became so absorbed in his work that by the time he noticed Optimus standing beside him, illuminating his patient for him with his own bright headlights, there were military helicopters filling the airspace overhead and who but Jorge Figueroa parking a military-issue, flatbed tractor-trailer on the weapons officer's opposite side. As the man got out, he took off his hat and stared up at them for a moment, blinking in the odd lighting. He uttered an "Ay Dios mio…" trailing off into a string of Spanish exclamations of giant-robot-inspired awe as he scurried around the truck, removing from the back a roll of steel cord and a stack of blue tarps.

"Were you even listening to me?"

"No, sir. What can I do for you, sir?" Ratchet still sounded bitter.

"You can drop the attitude until we can afford it and, if Ironhide is safe to move, you can help me get him on that trailer without damaging anything vital." Prime picked up one of the huge sheets of tarpaulin and laid it flat on the mobile slab of metal.

Grunting his assent, Ratchet got up. "If he finds out you let a human _drive _him around on that thing, I'm not going to defend you."

"Well that's fine, because I will be towing it myself." He tilted his head to indicate the Hispanic man currently unhitching the trailer from the truck before bending to get a grip on Ironhide's shoulders. Ratchet could only restrain his shock and scramble to lift the enormous legs onto the blue-covered surface.

"_You?_ Optimus Prime, reduced to towing freight. What would the Elders say if they saw that, I wonder?"

Prime took two more massive blue tarps and, with Ratchet's help, thoroughly made Ironhide over into a giant blue robot-mummy. "Probably that they thought it would suit me better all along. As for the current Elders," they unfolded the remaining tarps and, stuffing them under the last one thrown over their friend, succeeded in disguising the vaguely robot-shaped cargo into a shapeless lump before securing it with the steel cord. "I doubt Ironhide would care beyond it hindering my ability to transform quickly. And Jazz would probably approve of letting me do some old-fashioned manual labor. I don't mind at all."

Unwilling to be baited into what was undoubtedly a very long story, the medic changed the subject. "How did you get all of this anyway?" Ratchet had to ask as they watched the truck cab pull away from the trailer and the Lennox family moving closer from the vaporized cow pond.

"I made an official request to Secretary Hewitt. It seems the humans are serious about opening relations; they were quite accommodating."

Having parked the truck on the road, Fig ran back over to the supposedly "good" giant robots he'd been conscripted to help. He took off his hat and addressed the pair rather nervously. "¿Hay algo más que ustedes necesitan antes de salga? El capitán vive en media de ninguna parte, pero-

"English, Fig, English!" Will yelled, briefly turning away from some kind of argument with his wife, still some dozens of meters away at the edge of the giant-robot-illuminated section of desert.

He looked sheepishly up at the two NBEs, "Sorry, I always forget-"

"No es necesario disculparte por nada. Estamos listos a hablar en cualquier lenguaje que tiene programas de traducción que están disponibles en la Internet. Estos preparativos son suficientes; por favor, acepte mis gracias y se les comunique a sus supervisors," Optimus rumbled, quite naturally, in Spanish.

"Yo aprendería a gustarme de ustedes... Adios, mis amigos robóticos gigantes!" With that he waved up at them and ran back to the truck, giving some kind of signal to the choppers before driving back the way he came.

Meanwhile, the Lennox couple was still arguing. Loudly.

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I hope everything turns out ok. I mean, Prowl has clearly had a really crappy time of it and he deserves R&R. I can't reveal his package yet. Sorry, I didn't mean to lie!

I threw out some poker jargon in the title; what's up with that? The Big Blind is a forced bet paid by a rotating player every hand. Being "in the Big Blind" means that you have been forced to make the minimum bet regardless of your hand, but it also means you are in the position to make your voluntary bet last. As I would quote Optimus saying words that I wrote for him, it is "a matter of cost and benefit." Seems Prowl has to ante up this round.

**WOOHOO! 20 CHAPTERS! THIS CALLS FOR A REVIEW!**

And there's Gambit! The automatic card-shuffler! He'll spit them out at you like a card-shooting machine gun in perfect random order. Too bad they won't explode… or will they? (I don't own Xmen either.)

My Spain-fu master sister was very helpful translating some very odd sentences for me. I ended up changing them a wee bit, so if it's not grammatically correct, it's probably my fault, not hers. She's super-fluent. My translation may not be exact; I added it after the fact by request from the Honored Readership.

Spanish Translation:

Fig: "Is there anything else you need before we go? The captain lives in the middle of nowhere, but-"

Lennox: "English, Fig, English!"

Fig: "Sorry, I always forget-"

Optimus: "There is no need to apologize. We are equipped to speak any language available in translation on the Internet. These arrangements are sufficient; please accept my thanks and pass them on to your superiors."

Fig: "I could learn to like you guys… Adios, my giant robotic friends!"

Please, as always, let me know what you think.


	21. My Husband Knows Robots

Once again things haven't gone as planned, but I felt this perspective had to be revisited. More versions of the story than _Rashomon._ Oh well. I have one more little catch-up thing to do and then we're back to linear time. Onward and upward!

NOES! They can't kill Fig! I never finished the novel… and I missed it in IMAX… But Fig lives on- in my heart, and my story! FIG LIVES! MUAHAHAHA! That's probably the least mean thing I've done yet…

I don't own Transformers. I don't even have the DVD yet.

My Husband Knows Robots

Sarah Lennox's day had started normally enough. She did all her normal, everyday things like reading the paper, watching the news, getting a PB&J sandwich into a bouncing Anna and then off her face, and talking to her parents over their new webcam. Unable to get any work done with her daughter so wound up, she took her out for groceries, ice cream, and an hour in the park in town.

It was on their return home that things had gotten nasty. First some punk who couldn't have been older than 18 and his big expensive Camaro (canary yellow, of all colors!) blocked her lane and started yammering on about some danger and something about her husband.

To top things off, the kid was _right _and a bomber- an F-16 or F-22? God, she's become a real military wife- starts firing at them and they run for cover.

And the yellow Camaro _follows _them. By itself.

That probably freaked her out more than her car being hit by a missile. Bombers fire missiles. Missiles blow things up. Cars do _not _drive themselves. And she was definitely _not _getting into the self-driving yellow Camaro and going with that punk to God-knows-where, enemy fighter or no. Holding Anna tightly, she gave the kid and his yellow car a piece of her mind.

Then she heard noise from the direction of the road, and what did she see barreling towards them across the desert, but **The Truck.** _Will!_

But something was wrong. She swore that was her husband doing some crazy tumble out of the moving **Truck **and rolling across the dirt. That didn't seem to bother the accelerating vehicle.

"_**TAKE COVER!"**_ boomed across the broad, flat space.

Surely **The Truck **hadn't just yelled that. That was crazy. But then it…

_Oh God._

Not only had it driven itself and yelled at them, it pulled a solo 360 and _got up._ Like standing. On _legs._ And now that giant, black, metal _**Thing **_was crouched just dozens of yards away and leaping to intercept the bomber like some kind of deadly silver football- _how _had she not noticed it? Never mind, giant robot-thing, of course- and hurtling backwards over their heads, smashing into the ground on the far side of the pond.

That plane was _definitely _an F-22. But the form that pried itself free of the unmoving **Truck/Robot/**_**Thing**_ definitely was _not._ And then it sprang back into the air, and became a plane again.

What the hell was going on? About to pose that very question to the punk with the yellow car, she whirled at a noise behind her.

And found herself staring at a twenty-foot yellow and black robot. A robot firing red fireballs out of his arm.

_Oh God they're _everywhere.

And as she was gaping in shock she nearly jumped out of her skin as she and her sobbing daughter were locked in the grasp of strong arms from behind. She screamed, whirling around to deck that freak and-

Was met with the worried eyes of her husband. _Oh._

"_William Michael Lennox!" _she gasped in some combination of shock, anger, and relief. "What is going _on…?"_

"You're not hurt? And Anna's alright?"

"No, we're fine. But if you don't tell me what's going on _right now…_ Why did our truck turn into a robot? Why are there robots fighting? Tell me!" She pushed herself right up into his face on her toes, free hand clutching his shirt. She was about five seconds from becoming uselessly hysterical if she didn't get answers and she knew it.

"Well-" Before Will could form a proper response, the ground exploded beside them and a spiked claw launched out of the debris to grab the Captain. As the ranger shoved his wife behind him, the claw was snapped back inches from his chest. Yanked from the ground and his prize, Scorponok whipped around to attack Bumblebee, who had grabbed him from behind.

Drawing the wide-eyed Sarah and their daughter back into a hug, he pointed to the thrashing Autobot grappling with the scorpion. "That yellow robot is a good guy." He turned them around, pointing toward the deathly still mass that was Ironhide, "Our truck is a good guy. If you see a yellow and red Hummer robot or a blue and red semi with flames, they're good guys too. The scorpion thing, the raptor, a Mustang police cruiser, _any _other giant robots are bad news until proven good guys."

"But what are they? Why are they fighting?"

"They're from outer space. They're fighting a war, and we're caught in the middle."

"Oh…" And then the yellow robot was right on top of them, hunched over the couple, the child, and the punk as he took hits from the jet's missiles. Tucking her daughter's head under her chin and craning her neck to look up at the concentrating blue, mechanical eyes above her, Sarah was almost willing to believe him.

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She handled that pretty well under the circumstances, don't you think? Next time I get everyone on the road and introduce some important info. Geez, if you saw this crap you'd tell me to go write documentaries, not fanfiction.

I have a little motorized butterfly that flaps its wings in my window. It would be cool if it were a SUPER MECHA BUTTERFLY OF DEATH. I'd call him Morphion Blue.

Hit that little blue button that says "Go" while I go to class!


	22. Well Call Me Lola

**YAY FOR 100 REVIEWS! LET THE REJOICEMENT BEGIN! **

**(does a little dance)**

Here's the last bit of catch-up material! It's got some sappy parts, which surprised the crap out of me. And here I thought I was heartless and cold…

As of 8:05 tonight, I still don't own Transformers. I'll keep you updated.

Well Call Me Lola

"You want us to go with them?! Of all the dangerous, crazy…"

Will knew he should be listening to his wife and trying to comfort her, but he could only stare blankly at her and let her vent her anxieties at him. He felt like Anna looked in his arms: completely exhausted. He'd been awake too long, attacked by giant underground and flying robots, and subjected to the terror that he might have lost his ladies all in one day. And now Ironhide was a mess of twisted metal being strapped to the bed of a trailer. All he wanted was to go home and sleep for a week.

Unfortunately, he seemed to have an arachnid problem. And no way in hell was his family going near that house until it was taken care of.

So he just spaced out, waiting for Sarah to wind down long enough for him to protest. He only moved to investigate a strange noise- was there a blender with rocks in it somewhere?- from above him.

Oh. Apparently Optimus could be stealthier than he thought.

He rested a hand on his startled wife's shoulder as she looked to him for instruction. "Sir?" he asked quietly and a bit hoarsely. Ironhide had demanded that he stop yelling up at him soon after they had become acquainted. "What's the situation?"

Optimus regarded the small humans with interest and concern. Keener interest than was warranted after a major battle directed at Will himself, like how Ironhide looked poring over "archaic" weapons' schematics and "primitive" explosive formulas with him. He didn't have the energy to ask about that too. Luckily Optimus answered him before things got awkward, but Sarah jumped when the low, rumbling voice issued from behind the charred battle mask.

"The facilities at Hoover Dam have been availed to us for Ironhide's repairs. I will tow him there and then rendezvous with Prowl, who is en route to Tranquility with Bumblebee, at which time I will send the two of them back for repairs as well. Scorponok is no longer in sensory range; do you wish to accompany us?" He slowly bent closer to the tired trio and Sarah gripped her husband's arm, a quiet "_They talk?" _barely escaping her lips.

"I would appreciate that. We can't stay here and I would rather go with Ironhide."

"Very well. Allow me a moment to hitch up; you and your family may ride with me." The massive bot straightened and turned away from them, walking back to the impatient medic and precious cargo.

"With you?" A surprised Will pulled his stunned wife along as he followed the Autobot leader. "Are you sure? You're not exactly a passenger vehicle, and you'll already be towing Ironhide. We'd be fine going with Ratchet…"

As Optimus backed himself up to the trailer, optics locked on the hitching mechanisms and electrical cables, his obscured face twitched indecipherably before he collapsed into his transformation. His damaged hand was assimilated into his side with a _clang,_ followed by a series of ugly grinding noises from that vicinity as he completed the change, popping both doors to his cab.

It was Ratchet who answered Will's protest.

"My leg and shoulder are damaged. My wiring and circuits may be exposed when I transform, which would be dangerous for you humans to come in contact with. And since he is already otherwise engaged," the medic indicated the bulk of the wide-load trailer flawlessly hitched to the patchily charred semi, "It would make more sense to leave one of us free to transform quickly." He limped in front of his superior officer and transformed back into vehicle mode, lights flashing but sirens silent.

Will nodded in approval and ushered Sarah to the passenger side of the massive truck. When he indicated the door several feet off the ground and offered her a hand, she shook her head, "You have got to be kidding me. Will, that's an _alien robot_. We can't just…" She mimicked his gesture at the door.

Captain Lennox sighed. "Sarah, please. Could you please just cooperate for now? I'll answer all your questions when we're somewhere safe. I promise. Right now I need you to get in that truck so they can help Ironhide."

Scrutinizing her tired husband's even gaze, Sarah nodded. "Don't think you're getting out of that." She carefully heaved herself up into the enormous vehicle, reaching down to take Anna when Will offered her the sleeping girl. The door swung gently shut as she was figuring out the seatbelt. Worried, she looked to the man clambering into the driver's side, his door also having ideas of its own. He nodded to her comfortingly, took her hand, and held it on the seat between them.

Slightly reassured, Sarah Lennox managed not to jump when the truck started all by itself and followed the flashy Hummer down the road. It was several minutes later when a realization hit her that made her stiffen in fright from head to toe. Will met the shocked gaze she turned on him with a worried one, silently asking what was wrong.

"God, it's not mad at me is it?!"

"Is what mad at you?"

"The truck! I've been calling it _Lola _for the past year! I took it to buy plants last weekend!"

"The truck is a 'he,' sweetheart, not an 'it,' and he griped about it a lot but I think the nickname amused him. On some level, at least. He actually rather likes you, from what I can tell."

"Well that's a relief…"

"Now that you know though, you may want to start calling him _Ironhide; _somehow I think he would find 'Lola' less endearing if you used it to his face."

"Ironhide… I see." Sensing that her husband wasn't quite distressed over that fact, Sarah settled back to think. So her husband knew robots. Space robots. Nevertheless, if they were anything like the company he usually kept she didn't have much to worry about from them. It was worth a try. "So, um, Mr. Red-and-Blue Truck, sir. What's _your _name?"

Will didn't listen to the doubtlessly polite and thoughtful response. He was busy wondering if a man had ever been more proud of his wife.

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Awwww.

Spectrum is a desk lamp, lighting even the darkest nights in my dorm room. Without him, I'd never find the right sticky note.

This weekend is Fall Break, so I'm signing off until the end of next week. The next chapter (singular) is a big one though. I promise. Some of you have obviously caught on to what Prowl has, but I assure you that that only scratches the surface of what everyone is up to. Slag is about to hit the propeller in a serious way; hopefully someone has figured it out and knows what they're doing, or it is already too late…

Wait. I have real plans for the plot? Wicked.

The button looks purple to me, but I have been termed 'color-stupid' by everyone I know, who insist it is blue. I just don't know anymore… But hit it!


	23. Stalker Indeed!

Sooo I'm posting this massive authorial rampage in two parts for dramatic effect and organizational purposes. There may still be issues with this chapter as a result of my stupid, deleterious actions. (omg there's that word again…)

If you want a mildly amusing one-shot, try "The Console Wars," which was my attempt to communicate in my days of computerlessness.

I don't own Transformers. If I did, Michael Bay wouldn't be directing the sequel.

Stalker Indeed

When Sam was dragged- well, perhaps _drag _is too strong a verb for application of the puppy optics and a gentle poke- but nevertheless, when Sam followed Bumblebee to the road to be met by a slightly larger, _much _filthier mech who just didn't look right, he was skeptical to say the least.

When Bumblebee indicated the westward direction and plunked himself into vehicle mode, which was sliced in such a way that he might have been painted with tiger stripes, Sam was rather worried.

But when the unfamiliar figure convulsed once-_his head retracted into his chest, the left side of which wasn't quite car-like-_ twice –_his upper body collapsed, the roof of the vehicle smacking the ground viciously- _a third time –_his lower body noisily compacted itself waist-to-thigh as the car's rear, hitting the road right side up- _and the finale –_his legs twisted together and thrashed, sending the whole vehicle into a roll and folding up below the two halves as they aligned, forming the undercarriage- _Sam was downright appalled.

"You guys are a _mess!"_

The shredded yellow Camaro popped his driver's door and huffed, "And you are currently a shining example of perfect hygiene. There is nothing we can do about it; we need to _go."_

"If you say so." He cautiously ducked into the cabin of his favorite alien car and slumped into the seat. "It's a good thing it's dark; you guys really look like crap. I hope we don't draw too much unwanted attention as it is. You sure you two are gonna make it?"

Bumblebee started his engine and accelerated gently, making sure to keep a sensor lock on his follower that bordered on paranoid. "My injuries, while rather ugly, are mostly superficial. Armor is there for a reason. As for Prowl… I don't know. His condition is too complicated for me to assess and deteriorating gradually. We'll just have to try." Pulling onto the highway, the yellow Autobot cautiously stayed in the slow lane, trying to gauge the other car's speed capability.

"Prowl, huh? Sounds shady if you ask me. Who is he? Your resident stalker?" Sam wasn't even pretending to drive, just habitually keeping an eye out for cops and staring at the pair of headlights in the rearview mirror.

Luckily Bee was too preoccupied to be offended on Prowl's behalf, "Quite the opposite. He is Chief Tactical Officer and the head of Autobot security, and a very respectable personage besides. That he showed up without a team worries me; officers of such high rank never travel alone. With the exception of the Special Ops Commander, of course."

Sam whistled, "Major brass, huh? That's cool. Optimus could probably use the backup." Giving up trying to identify the vehicle tailing them, he rubbed his eyes and slouched. "Hey, speaking of Optimus…"

"There is nothing I can tell you, Sam. I've never even heard of him exhibiting such rage, much less seen it."

"So, like… he's never lost his temper before? For real?"

"Of course he has. He has certainly been _angry_ and _upset,_ but that was not what we saw today." Bumblebee's voice became much softer as he insisted, "_That _was not our Optimus Prime. He should never look so murderous…"

"He's important to you, huh?"

"Of course. He is Optimus Prime. He is important to everyone."

Sam frowned, feeling guilty for bringing up a touchy subject but just too curious to pass up the opportunity. He called up everything he knew about the aloof Autobot in his mind and put to words something he'd been trying to guess at. "Half the time you talk about him like he's some kind of mystical being, Bee. You called him the Supreme Commander once, right? Is that why?"

"No…" Bumblebee tried to puzzle out this misunderstanding while maintaining vigilance against Prowl's condition. "That is his rank in the Cybercommand hierarchy, but his authority does not stem from any title so… auxiliary. 'Mystical being,' while a vague term, is not incorrect. He is also the Templar to the Matrix, which is as much a result as a cause of his… unique standing in Autobot regard." If Bumblebee was having trouble articulating, there was some serious wikipediology going on under that dashboard.

"So that's what, a religious thing? Is he like the robo-Pope or something?" The image of Optimus in the pope hat was just too good to resist.

"Negative. That analogy is quite flawed; his capacity is not so symbolic or limited. I have been unable to identify a human equivalent."

"That's cool. But what exactly does he do? Knowing that would help." He leaned forward in rapt attention, always enthusiastic about his Robot Inquisition.

Sounding frustrated, more with English and human cultural standards than with Sam, Bee tried to come up with a response that wouldn't take all night. "He is the Templar of the _Matrix._ The best of all of us, chosen to lead Cybertron."

"Pardon me, but I don't have a flying clue what this 'Matrix' thing that keeps coming up is. Is it a physical object that Optimus has stashed somewhere, like the Allspark, or is it a metaphor for something? And if you make any reference to the Keanu Reeves movie, I swear I'll lose all respect for you as a superior alien being."

"It isn't something I would joke about. It is a great mystery and a great burden, not something most Autobots would bring up in casual conversation. The Matrix is a physical object, as you guessed, but one with a… spiritual and metaphysical significance I'm not sure I can describe accurately."

"If you don't want to talk about it…"

"No, your concern is appreciated but unnecessary; I understand your curiosity. This is basic knowledge to us and something you have gained clearance for, after all." Sam was reassured by his car's light tone. "You know that the Allspark was a source of raw creative power, and have some idea of what it did to inanimate machines, correct?"

"Yeah, something like that. That's how you guys are born, right?"

The yellow vehicle scoffed, "Of course not. Those machines became beings of chaos; they had no centralized spark as we know it, just raw energy coursing through their bodies. That would be a primitive and fragile existence. Such energy needs to be concentrated and formatted in order to create a stable spark. That is, or was, part of what Optimus does."

Sam sat very still for a moment, narrowing his eyes at the gently swiveling Autobrand. "Are you…no… are you telling me he's your _dad? _That he's _everyone's_ dad?!" Pope-hat Optimus was now covered in tiny, clinging robots in Sam's head.

Exasperated, Bumblebee let out a sigh of static. "_No. _Stop trying to come up with some human substitute! There just isn't one. Yes, he is the ultimate hierarchical authority, yes, he is something of a mystical, spiritual figure, yes, his role is even somewhat… _paternal,_ but any one label of Commander, Pope, or parent is simply inadequate." He paused to think a moment. "'When a spark comes into being, there is great joy; when one is extinguished, the universe weeps,' this is what we are told as sparklings. Optimus Prime is responsible for creating new sparks, and when they are separated from their bodies it is into his safekeeping that they return when they go to rest in the Matrix. But he is one of us, the living example of the best we can be. Have I answered your question yet?"

"I… I think… maybe? But there is one more thing."

"Go ahead."

"Would it be terribly rude to ask where this Matrix thing is or what it looks like? I'd rather not destroy a second repository of alien robot souls, thankyouverymuch..."

Bumblebee stifled a distressed chuckle and mentally cringed. "The Matrix's basic form is a gold sphere with a silver frame around it, though I doubt you will ever have another… _chance_ to see it." Well, he had never lied to Sam and he wouldn't start now. "…It is in Optimus's chest compartment," he muttered quietly.

"Oh man…" Sam's eyes bugged out and he collapsed back in his seat, crossing his arms and engaging in stunned, horrified silence.

Empathetic but at a loss of how to help, Bumblebee went back to scanning Prowl full-time, noting a drop in his energy levels. He slowed a little, trying to calculate how long versus how fast his current charge could afford to continue.

"So where exactly _does_ your arm cannon go when you're in car form?" Sam blurted rather suddenly.

"Ummm, it is compartmentalized under the passenger seat." Bee answered shortly, no doubt raising a mental brow-plate somewhere.

"Oh." Sam regarded said butt-receptacle thoughtfully. "So that's how the popcorn got in there... Can I ask one more awkward question?"

"Certainly."

"Does having all that extra stuff in his chest have anything to do with why Optimus's bot-to-truck transformation looking like it really sucks?"

Bumblebee's transmission flinched with sympathy. "_Yes._ My spark containment casing, for example, is relatively snug around the actual crystal and the armor plating and circuitry surrounding it can shift to accommodate my transformation. If I remember my Schematics, the frame of the Matrix will have frozen much of Optimus Prime's chest compartment in place, and would require more rearrangement to adapt to his alternate mode. I do not believe it actually causes him discomfort, but I agree; it does look rather… unsettling. I admit I am surprised you picked up on that; I'll make an Autobot of you yet."

"Thanks for clearing it all up, buddy. I appreciate it."

"Not at all. I always…" Bee trailed off in distraction.

"Bumblebee? What is it? Is something wrong?"

Sam could hear the worried frown in his friend's voice. "Prowl has lost thermal input. His systems are beginning to go into emergency shutdown."

"We're almost there! Can he make it to the yard?" Sam twisted around in his seat to stare at the headlights –was it him or were they dimmer now?- trailing behind them.

"I hope so. I can't imagine how he's still functional after leaking so much energy." Bumblebee, apparently deeming a shortcut appropriate, veered off the road through the fence of the junkyard, stopping at a particularly rusty pile of metal refuse and popped the door for his passenger. When Prowl jostled over, Bumblebee was already standing in all his robotic glory to meet him.

The dirt-encrusted vehicle lurched to a halt and, regardless of Bumblebee's frantic protests, proceeded to transform. It took him two false starts and four false stops, but eventually he stumbled forward on fully-formed legs.

"_Well kid? You going to move that or should I?"_ A gravelly voice sounded from somewhere on the dust-caked face, a hand flung vaguely toward the pile of busted microwaves and junk car parts.

Intimidated and horrified by the newcomer's state, the yellow bot turned around and removed a huge section of the pile. As it happened, much of the dilapidated scrap had been welded to metal sheets to hide what lay beneath them.

And there lay Jazz's lifeless form, curled on his side under a blanket of discarded junk.

Upon seeing the body of his friend, Prowl pushed Bumblebee out of the way and extracted it himself, propping him gently against his former camouflage. Pausing to stare intently into the dead optics, the tired security officer sighed. "_I didn't believe it,"_ he muttered. "_He was just so good at surviving this slag, I didn't believe it when it came with Optimus's message."_ He reached forward, pried open Jazz's chest compartment, and locked the lifted panel in place, ignoring Bumblebee's appalled squeal and frantic gestures.

Even Sam jumped in alarm when he suddenly reached down to his own chest and dug his fingers into the edges of the thick, mismatched plate welded there.

And proceeded to tear it viciously off.

It was all his small audience could do to stare in shock as he reached into the side of his own torso and withdrew a glowing, sparkling jewel the size of a cantaloupe and rotated it thoughtfully, letting its radiance fill the junkyard with shards of bluish multicolored light. Carefully rotating a section of the convex metal surface in Jazz's chest, he revealed what could have been a chunk of fractured glass in the dead spy's core. Reverently Prowl removed it and held it in one hand while the other replaced it with the perfect glowing sphere.

"_Now it's up to Prime," _he murmured as he closed Jazz's chest back up, giving him a weak rendition of a friendly thump on the shoulder as he stood and turned to stare distantly in the direction of the road.

"Bumblebee?!" Sam inquired in shock and amazement, having a vague sense of what was happening."

Equally astounded, Bumblebee's horror had drained away and he now gaped at Prowl, dirty and damaged as he was, with a newfound wonder. "Sam, Optimus is going to try to bring Jazz back." He could barely hide his excitement and nervousness.

"Whoa…" was all the reaction the overwhelmed human could offer.

Moving to stand and wait with Prowl, the speechless yellow Autobot whistled in agreement.

This changed everything.

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Oh man, they're doing something!

I apologize if I slipped back into question/answer session mode, but I figured you guys needed this stuff _now, _especially with the brand spanking new Ultra Plot Device (the Allspark) thrown into the mix and with Jazz all dead and stuff. I just wanted to clarify and maybe explain why everything it touched became a mindless murder machine. More of that later in a less artificial context, perhaps. (wink)

So I was in the mood to write a scene that has been bouncing around my grey matter since I started and, because I usually need to psych myself up to put something mean to keyboard, I broke my rule of not writing chapters out of sequence. The space between now and then just keeps getting wider, and I may have to rewrite the whole thing by the time I get there. If that happens, there will be a "Stray Transmission" posted anyway, because I want feedback anyway as my vision of how things would go from right now. We'll see; I hope I can keep it.

Cartion is a golf cart mechanoid. He means business on and off the course. Balls hit into the drink drive him into a frustrated rage and he is the king of online golf!

Hmmm. Review here, then go read "The Console Wars" and review there! For me?


	24. Asleep on His Feet

I lied. There's going to be one more part to this because of some awkwardness. Hope you like.

I am not in possession of Transformers.

Asleep on His Feet

About ten minutes later, Mikaela came into sight on her blue scooter. Parking it by the gate, she ran up and hugged Sam fiercely. "Oh my God, are you guys ok? Bumblebee! You look terrible!"

It took several minutes to assure her that they were both relatively unharmed. "I was just coming to check on Jazz…" she trailed off and looked from the slouched form leaning against the artificial junk pile to the beaten and dirtied mech still staring toward the road. "Um, care to fill me in…? Who's that and what are you guys doing out here?"

"That guy's name is Prowl, our first Autobot arrival from space! He's in rough shape though, from what I heard he can't hear anything at the moment and he hasn't been speaking English. Bee's miming doesn't seem to work either. He was followed by a real nasty dump truck, the scorpion thing Will was talking about, and get this: Starscream!" He tugged her toward Jazz and pointed at his chest, "They were all trying to stop him from bringing this crystal thing to Jazz. Took that cracked one he's holding out and replaced it with a new one he'd been carrying in his side where that hole is. I bet Ratchet's going to flip out, but Bee says Optimus can bring Jazz back now!"

Mikaela could hardly believe how happy Sam sounded when he looked and smelled like the walking dead. "How is that possible? He's dead!"

Bumblebee turned around and crouched beside them. "I can't answer your question; that kind of thing hasn't been done in a very long time. Not since I was sparked, anyway. When the energon crystal in our core breaks, our sparks leave our body. And the only mines with spark containment-grade energon were either destroyed or taken by the Decepticons. They didn't want us reviving our fallen or creating new sparklings. But if Optimus put out a request for such a crystal, it must be possible."

The young woman shifted uneasily. When they had first put Jazz's body here, he had been a pile of bits and pieces of torn metal. She'd volunteered to come and make sure he wasn't discovered when the Autobots weren't around out of sympathy for a soldier who couldn't be sent home. The second time she had had to come she was surprised to find him very much in one piece, but she had been to this same junk pile off and on for months now and could truthfully say he was little different from the parts arranged on top of him. "I hope Optimus can do something for him," was all she could offer without hurting the hopeful robot's feelings.

Bumblebee nodded. "He will," and moved back to Prowl's side.

"What are you guys waiting for, Sam?" Mikaela asked as they sat in the dust next to Jazz's wheeled foot.

"Optimus. He's going to come here after he drops Ironhide off at Hoover Dam with Ratchet."

"Why are Ironhide and Ratchet going there?" she asked, alarmed.

"Well you see, Starscream was shooting at us and the Lennoxes and Ironhide kind of… tackled him." Sam winced at the memory of that crunching sound.

"Tackled him? In the _air?"_

"Yup. Jumped up and grabbed him like a Frisbee. He got ploughed into the ground pretty bad; Optimus had to tow him on a trailer to the dam. The big wigs are letting them use it to keep their cover, I guess."

"Oh." She couldn't help but worry about the implications that had. "I hope he gets here soon."

"Me too." He snuck his hand into hers on her bent knee and squeezed it.

A nearly silent half hour later, the semi with the telltale blue and red flames rumbled into the junkyard, still attached to the trailer. "Bumblebee," the tired mech's voice issued from the cab, "If you could get Prowl and Jazz onto the trailer under the tarp, we can head out."

"Sir? I thought we would head back without you and Jazz," Now the smaller bot looked worried.

"Ratchet predicted otherwise, and he was right. Prowl has gone into stasis lock, and this place is too open for my liking."

Shocked, Bumblebee waved his hand in front of Prowl's optics. Nothing. "But I was scanning him this whole time, and he is still standing with his optics online."

Optimus let out a sound of mild amusement. "Prowl is an interrogator; he knows all of the tricks and how to apply them. He probably didn't want to be taken away before I try to help Jazz. He is a loyal friend." The big truck pulled around and backed the large, flat bed of the trailer behind the motionless statue.

When Bumblebee gently pushed on the damaged bot's shoulder he suddenly found his large blue optics illuminating the inside of the barrel of a laser rifle. Identifying the offender, Prowl shook off his sense of déjà vu and removed the weapon from the surprised face. "_Now what do you think you're doing, youngling?" _he rasped. Bee gestured from him to the trailer, which Prowl noted was hitched to Optimus Prime. "_With all due respect, I'm not going anywhere without that good-for-nothing spy."_ Bumblebee couldn't help but smile as he gestured from Jazz's prone form to the trailer and waved two fingers in front of his superior's face. He frowned, "_If Ratchet put you up to this to get me under his lasers…" _The threat was there.

Shaking his head innocently and repeating his descriptive gesticulations, Bee finally got Prowl to sigh in defeat and sit himself on one side of the wide trailer. At a suspicious "_Now, hand him up!" _he scrambled over to the other side and hefted Jazz's small, limp form up to the waiting hands. He bustled around the patiently waiting truck several times before the tarp was secured to his and Prowl's liking, buzzing and clicking the whole time in a way that Sam and Mikaela found very bee-like. Despite the gravity of the situation, they couldn't suppress their smiles.

"If you two are coming along," rumbled the truck with its completely un-suspicious cargo, parked next to a totally commonplace prototype Camaro right out of a chainsaw murder flick, "You should ride with me. If not, Bumblebee will drive you home before joining the rest of us for repairs."

Sam turned to Mikaela, who raised an eyebrow. "Hey, there's no way I'm missing this." When she rolled her eyes, he protested, "Fifty years from now-"

"Ok, just get in the truck." She yanked him to his feet and, smirking, ran around to the driver's side and hauled herself up into the seat.

Shrugging at the somehow questioningly parked Camaro, Sam grinned and whispered to no one in particular, "_I love my girlfriend!"_ racing up into the passenger seat of the giant alien robot commander and climbing in. Much to Mikaela's amusement, he was asleep in four minutes flat.

Only to face the most terrifying wake-up call of his life when they reached their destination.

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I know, I know, I like the one-line cliffhangers a _little_ too much. I'll put the next one up soon, I promise, but it's not what you think. Er, whatever you think, that's not it. Something like that.

Firebrand is a toaster oven with a bad attitude. He hates it when you try to make him melt cheese or peanut butter and wields a heat blade to rival Optimus Prime's. Ish.


	25. Like He Owns the Place

Last one tonight. I swear. I stalked the last two and agree, they take a long time to become accessible after the link shows up. Poo.

I don't own Transformers any more than I did yesterday, which was not at all.

Like He Owns the Place

Ratchet pounced on the unconscious Ironhide the moment he was off that trailer and went back to work with all the fury of a Hippocratic berserker. There were humans in the small room, mostly soldiers, but he made his opinion of their proximity quite apparent and they mostly loitered well clear of the pair, waiting for instruction. Instruction that, for the most part, didn't come. Ratchet was a veritable Swiss Army Robot of medical instruments and didn't need any of the tools the former Sector Seven scientists had left behind.

Indeed, he was so self-sufficient he didn't realize why they must be there for some time. When he did, however, it became a different story entirely. He barked orders at the lot of them and someone always did what he asked. It was almost like having a proper medbay again and he soon had it operating at the level of mild chaos he found optimal. He had drop cloths and towels and biohazard waste bins brought to his disposal immediately. Ironhide hadn't had any major energon lines severed, thank Primus, but the impact had split some lengthwise and as he pulled off Bumblebee's patches to repair them, thick drops of the glowing blue stuff dribbled out.

There seemed to be some kind of panic when he started ripping plates of armor off of Ironhide's midsection and chest. "Oh, don't be such ninnies; he could put up with this kind of thing even if he were awake. Now where is that lever I asked for?"

A six-foot metal rod was passed to him, which he took and bent slightly toward one end, then plunged it without hesitation into Ironhide's dis-armored abdomen. He fished around with it for a while and, getting the hold he needed, began to pry at something in his back. Whispers went around the peanut gallery, at which he rolled his optics. "If anyone has a better idea of how to straighten a bent dorsal frame, feel free to make a suggestion. Otherwise, either shut up or get out. I won't have squeamish assistants." The room quickly quieted to the deafening cacophony it had been at before as Ratchet continued to wrench and rearrange Ironhide's innards. A constant stream of curses left his vocal processor as he worked, as was his habit.

By the time he had straightened the unconscious warrior's frame, extracted his abdominal workings from his back, and reworked all of his crushed wiring, Optimus had already collected his other patients for him. Bumblebee looked rather nervously around the room, recognizing it as where he had been kept in human captivity, but helped him move Prowl all the same. He was a good bot.

Returning his patient's icy glare as he set him down, Ratchet withheld his curses and lecture for when his irritating friend could hear him. He took the plate offered to him from Bumblebee, it seemed someone had done him the favor of removing it for him, and he scanned it. Deeming it sufficient for a temporary patch, he cut and ground it down to fit the idiot security officer and moved to weld it back on the side of his chest.

But instead whacked him upside the head. "_WHAT DID YOU DO?!" _He bellowed, the deaf bot not hearing but understanding as he was flipped up onto his side and had the life scanned out of his somewhat empty chest cavity.

"_Calm down, Ratchet. I knew what I was doing."_

"_But you clearly had no idea what _I _was going to do to _you!" His wrench attachment waved threateningly close to Prowl's face.

Too worried to be amused at the two one-sided conversations playing out before him, a trailer-free Optimus rolled up closer to his medical officer. "Ratchet, report."

"This _glitch _removed his whole right energon cell, section of primary armor, sensory circuits, and motive apparatuses altogether. I can't fix this!" The ire in his voice was downright scary.

For the _n_th time that day, Optimus sighed. "Do the best you can. He probably knew what he was getting into when he did it." He respectfully backed away and resumed his wait by the wall with Bumblebee.

Ratchet looked sharply at Prowl, "I am going to leave your audio's for last, because so help me Primus, I know I'll kill you if you say one word before I'm done with you."

Finding his patient too filthy to work on, he had the soldiers bring him a hose- which turned out to be a fire hose- and unapologetically blasted the caked sand, greasy grime, and crystallizing energon off of his uncomplaining victim before setting back to work.

And he worked at an even angrier, more frantic pace on Prowl than he had on Ironhide.

When he deemed Prowl's condition as good as he deserved under the circumstances, he moved on to Bumblebee- a thought Ratchet liked to believe was cruel, but the security officer was all but cosmetically whole except for the missing machinery in his side. And, while his sensors were quickly coming back online without an irradiating ball of energon under his armor, he was forced into deep stasis before he could utter a word of protest.

Bumblebee, thankfully had been so kind as to avoid injuries more serious than gashed armor and a damaged sensor array. As soon as he had finished reconstructing the missile-blasted wing, he shooed the yellow bot out and turned to his Commander.

Or turned _on _him, depending on how you look at it.

Arms crossed, he advanced on the truck, limping as he went. "Well? Are you going to make me wait all day?" –for the sun had long risen again- "Get up, so I can finally have some peace and quiet around here." He looked very annoyed, despite the fact that he'd been making all the noise and Optimus had hardly moved or said anything the whole time.

"I thought it would be best to wait for the children to wake up. They have had a long day." Peering into the cab, Ratchet could indeed see the pair slumped in slumber leaning on each other across the large seat. Unfortunately, he had other ideas.

He leaned over Prime's hood to face the windshield and started his saw next to the window. "**WAKE UP!" **he yelled in his best Ironhide impersonation, with a purely Ratchet twist. Startled by the loud whine of the whirling saw and greeted by Ratchet's tired, angry, robotic visage, the two practically leapt out of their skins as they scrambled out of the cab.

Immediately crunching and clicking in transformation, Optimus loomed over Ratchet looking very displeased. "That was uncalled for Ratchet. If you want to take out your frustration on the humans, do it under someone else's command. While you are _my _medical officer, such behavior is unacceptable."

Ratchet grabbed Optimus's slag-frozen hand and started slicing away at the joints with his laser-scalpel and grinding down the rough edges. "Well the next time you want to tell me who to fix and when, you can shove your orders down your exhaust vents. You have _no_ _idea _how close Prowl came to running himself offline today or how fragile his condition still is. He half _gutted _himself to bring you Primus-knows-what, and all you have to-"

"A containment-grade Beta-sub-Tetrion Class energon crystal." Optimus deadpanned.

Ratchet stopped working mid-cut and looked up to scrutinize the taller Autobot's face. "You must be joking. You're not going to try to…? With _what?"_

"The fragment of the Allspark."

Ratchet shook his head and went back to his task. "You and I both know it won't work. And Prowl went on some wild Seeker chase and half-killed himself to bring you a useless crystal."

"The shard will be enough; that isn't the issue. Though I agree, chances are slim enough as it stands. Regardless, I have to try, and not just for Jazz. I swear to you that I sent the request for that crystal as a general high-priority medical order. I did not intend for anyone to attempt breaching the mines alone, and if I had any inkling that Prowl would go to such lengths to get it here, I would have been more specific. " His gaze was serious, with a troubled frown creasing his visage.

"Yes, well, let it be a lesson to you. Prowl is out of commission indefinitely. Until I get replacement parts he shouldn't overexert himself, which includes just about everything he would consider worth doing."

Optimus nodded. "I trust him entirely to your care." Receiving his hand back from the medic, he found that the plates which had been melted together by Starscream's dying engine were again separate and he flexed it experimentally. Nodding in approval, he turned to leave.

"You put a lot of strain on yourself grabbing that Seeker brat, you know. If you plan on leaving here before I've recalibrated your joints…" He brandished his saw with a dangerous glint in his optics.

"Perish the thought. But you are still injured, and accessing the Matrix is not physically strenuous work. You ought to get some rest." He picked Jazz's comparatively small shell up from the corner where he'd been unloaded and went to find somewhere quiet.

Finding himself alone with two unconscious mechs, Ratchet awkwardly lowered himself to the floor beside them- robots were apparently not meant to sit- and went to work on his damaged leg, cursing as he went.

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Oh Ratchet. He's… high strung. I'm ok with that. If the twins were here, he would have someone to set him off properly on a regular basis. They're good for him, really.

Right. I'll get on that.

He seems to know something we don't though. I wonder why they're being so pessimistic. JAZZ, COME BAAAAAAAAAAAAACK! I miss you…

Alrighty, time for me to do real work. With Cruncher, the graphing calculator! Way too expensive, and you'll never use him past high school except to play Mario and Tetris.

Wait, I don't do math…


	26. Accidentally in Charge

I haven't done proper responses lately and I apologize. Let me see…

**Myrmidryad** **and other Jazz fans: **I miss him too. But I can't seem to get him back online yet. I'd make a crappy medic, always neglecting the injured and… dead. And YEAH Pope hat! I couldn't not write in that little mental image.

**Ratchet fans: **There are so many of you. I love that guy and I love writing him. I'm glad you guys liked my Ratchet rampage too; he needs love. More specifically, a well-placed prank and some back-talk. I'm working on it, I promise.

**teh:** Confound you, you smart person. I bow to your superior knowledge and precognizant powers. I overestimated my sneakiness. And yet again you pick out all of my favorite parts.

**Roze** **Alchemist: **I love you, I miss you, and I want to see you soon. Stupid Maine and its stupid nonexistent roads. I'll fly over in my mech! Wait… I can't…

**Agnieszka: **Good to have you onboard, and thanks for the feedback! I do so enjoy mangling the English language for a witty turn of phrase; I'm glad it's agreeable to the readership.

**thechickenlittle, Gohanzgirl, and other general praise: **Thank you kindly. One 'Good job!' is worth a thousand silent hits. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

So I've written this four-chapter arc and some of it is… well… _cute._ Sickeningly teddy-bear hugging, heartstring-pulling, cry-worthy cute. I cried, people, and _I_ wrote it.

I think there's something wrong with me.

I'm going to spread these out a little so I can bail if it's really too gushy. But I'm usually cold and heartless, so maybe it's not actually all that cute to anyone else. Let me know, will you?

Oh yeah, I don't own Transformers. I don't pwn them either. Usually. (Sorry, Starscream!)

Accidentally in Charge 

Will would have stayed in that room all night if Sarah had let him. He wouldn't say he and Ironhide were bosom buddies, or that they knew everything about the other, or that there weren't worlds of differences between them, but that wasn't the point. They had a certain understanding. It was the same understanding the guys in his team had had despite differing backgrounds, tastes, and baseball teams. The only difference was that Ironhide was a giant war machine from a distant planet and he was some random Army Ranger who'd gotten mixed up with aliens. At least that's what it felt like.

But it didn't matter.

They had fought and died and gone home together, and that made all the difference. As far as the random Army Ranger was concerned that was one of his guys getting sawed apart on that floor, and he never left his guys if there was something he could do. So he marshaled the gawkers called in by the President- a real hodge-podge of Army, Air Force, Marines, Navy, and government agents of several breeds. Basically anyone on the federal payroll who had seen a giant robot and not gone directly into psychiatric care without passing Go had received a phone call and a black SUV with a complimentary man in black to bring them here. But no one had considered what to do with them when they kept trickling in during an emergency, except to 'secure the facility' and 'await debriefing.'

So when a fatigued man wearing, well, _fatigues_ but no gear got out of the big alien truck with a woman and child, everyone was a little put off. When he started yelling for the room to be cleared and, finding no one particularly in charge, demanding that people who knew their way around match up with groups of muscle and take orders from a surly yellow robot, there wasn't exactly an applause. They stayed where they were until said robot threatened to 'rearrange their circuits,' whence they decided moving was probably an acceptable demand to meet.

Frustrated and tired, Will was only too glad when who but Maggie Madsen, the blonde from his first visit to the dam, came to take his wife and daughter somewhere quieter. She must have caught onto his problem and used that fancy little phone of hers, because a few minutes later Fig and O'Malley rushed in to give him a hand. They started by rounding up the guys they knew, who coerced the guys _they _knew or could pull rank on to pitch in.

The agents who had worked in the secret facility were antsy and not so keen to start appropriating materials for the NBEs. When one of the black suits tried to overrule Will's authority, he was forced into a yelling match.

"Who do you think you're ordering around? We have direct orders from the President to wait for instruction, and that's what we're going to do!"

"Well I don't give a damn! You see that blue stuff?" the Captain pointed to the round, viscous globules of energon trembling brightly on the floor, "That's blood spilled to protect _us_. And if you're such a drone you can't see that, then maybe you care that it burns like hell. We need Hazmat gear in here _now, _no matter who's asking for it!" He was right in the suit's face, jaw set angrily.

"I don't know what authority you think you have, _Captain, _you clearly don't see the delicacy of the situation. Without official orders we can't afford to set any precedents of aiding the aliens, lest they-"

"'Lest they' what? Survive? We have a soldier down and you're worried about drop cloths and a few buckets?!" He was fuming.

"It isn't the actual-"

"That's one of my _guys_ over there!" He jerked his head in Ironhide's direction. At that, every soldier in the room tensed and made their way to stand behind Will. "And if you think you're going to keep me from helping that medic in any way we can, you've got another thing coming."

The look in the Ranger's eyes told the secret agent everything he needed to know about how outmatched he was. Combing his fingers through his generically-cut hair, he gave in. "Fine. We'll help you get what you need. But nothing goes anywhere undocumented."

So in the end, Will had a fairly cohesive unit of high clearance and secret-facility know-how plus efficient muscle and strategy under his direction. They made sure Ratchet got everything he offhandedly asked for. Some of the boys even got riled up when the cranky robot started tearing huge sections of metal off of his patient's midsection and went poking around in there with a six-foot crowbar. It was a touching display of loud, manly concern.

The robot barely noticed.

Later, as he walked dazedly out of the room, having dismissed everyone else to their sleeping arrangements, his only thought was to find his wife and get some sleep. Now that Ratchet was tending his own injuries he didn't need any more help, and Will was satisfied that Ironhide would be alright.

He came across his exhausted ladies on a couch among several other pieces of furniture pushed against a wall where some of the civilians were sleeping. Looking around at the large, empty space, he barely recognized it as the imposingly cluttered room that had housed the Allspark. Most of the machinery, now useless, had been moved out. But through a door down a small flight of stairs near the couches and chairs, what looked like some kind of café was in the middle of being painted.

Curious.

But Will's mind certainly wasn't on the décor when he saw the worried look on his wife's face as she hugged a slumbering Annabelle tightly.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" he asked as he eased himself onto the low, cushy seat and pecked his two favorite blondes on the cheek.

"The big truck guy, ummm… Optimus, came by here a minute ago." She fixed him with a meaningful look, but he didn't understand the significance.

"Yeah. His hand was melted pretty bad, but he was the last besides Ratchet to get fixed. He left while we were cleaning up. Why? What happened?" He put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer. Worry was the only thing from dropping off right there, where he belonged. "If this is about what he was carrying, don't worry about it. Jazz was… well, killed in Mission City. They seem to think they can still help him though, from what I gathered from Sam." The poor kid had been all nerves when he and a shaky Mikaela had asked where they could get out of the way. He'd sent them up to Maggie to help with the lacking communication in the dam.

"Well that was weird, but that's not it. He stopped to chat and he was just… _staring. _At Anna. He barely took his eyes off her. I don't like it, Will." She gripped his arm with a worried shiver.

Will frowned, remembering how intently the huge Autobot had been staring at him when he was holding their daughter at the site of the battle. _He was looking at her. Maybe something came up on his scanners? _But Ratchet had barely glanced at them. Deciding to trust his gut feeling, he didn't mention any of this to his spouse. "It's probably nothing. I don't know him very well personally, but Ironhide holds him in the highest regard. And he has a _very _strong aversion to harming humans, which I don't doubt for a minute." When his wife started to stand up and opened her mouth to tell him what she thought about his response, he held her tighter and put a finger to her lips. "I never said I didn't think it was an issue. I'll ask about it the next chance I get, but I am telling you that Anna is in the safest place she can be in right now. We should both get some sleep and worry about everything else in the… well, when we wake up."

Satisfied, Sarah nodded and they made themselves comfortable on the deep-cushioned couch, dropping into a much-needed rest despite the lights and the few people still moving about.

But someone had other ideas.

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I'm serious about the cute. You have no idea. In the next chapter you might get some idea. Tommorrow maybe.

Transforming chainsaw. 'Nuff said.

Gotta counteract the cute somehow, right?


	27. Takes One to Know One

I don't own Transformers.

Takes One to Know One

The Lennox couple awoke almost simultaneously with the same thought. "_Where's Anna?!"_ They were immediately off the couch and running around, calling for her constantly. When it became clear she wasn't in the huge but sparse room, Will dashed toward the makeshift infirmary, hoping to find one of the Autobots to get the word out and help them find her. A yellow Camaro met them halfway down the tunnel and transformed.

"Ratchet told me to come see what you two were yelling about. Is something wrong, Captain?"

"Bumblebee!" Will gasped, "We woke up and Annabelle was gone. Can you run a scan or something to see where she is?"

The difficult-to-read, insect-like Autobot cocked his head to the side, "No. I detect nothing like her on my scans, but they don't reach very far through the thick masses of concrete in this structure. And she is very small." He regarded the couple sympathetically as Sarah worriedly grabbed Will's hand, on the brink of tears. Then an idea struck the clever bot. "I cannot find her with my sensors, but I think I might know where she went." He motioned for them to follow him back the way they had come, the pair jogging to keep up with the large robot.

"How? Where would she go?" The woman asked as she ran.

"It is where I would go if I were a sparkling on the loose," he chirped cheerfully.

"Bumblebee," Will addressed seriously, "I don't think human kids and robot kids wander off to the same places."

The Autobot considered this as he walked, careful not to outpace them too badly. "Perhaps, but they might both wander until they find something entertaining enough to keep them in one place. And even if she isn't there, we'll get someone who can help us."

Skeptical at the vague answer, the parents followed their helper down the tunnel to Megatron's hangar. Peering into the room and turning back to them, Bumblebee put one finger to his mouthpiece to keep them quiet. His eyes were smiling brightly.

He needn't have worried. When he moved to the side of the threshold so they could see, both humans were stunned quite silent.

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I accidentally deleted the file with the A/N. I'll see if I can dig it up!


	28. The Best Sound in the Universe

**Windwalker** **and tomorrow4eva: **I am duly ashamed by the shortness. That's why I decided to post it early. SHAME! (hides face in shame)

**LostSchizophrenic: **Why thank you. And _no one _speaks to me before I update again. (sob) But it's the thought that counts; I feel the spite. (cringes from spite) Ok, ok, I'm posting now, happy? Lol.

CUUUUUUUUUUUUTE! I dunno, maybe it's not as cute as it's cracked up to be, I'll leave that to my honorable readers. But I've never done anything remotely like this before, so you'll have to forgive my emotional funk over it.

I don't even like kids.

Anyway, I don't own Transformers.

The Best Sound in the Universe

Finally dragging himself and Jazz away from the Lennox woman and her daughter, Optimus knew he couldn't put it off any longer. The longer he waited, the slimmer his chances got, and Jazz deserved better than his procrastination.

Slag, but he hated this part of his job.

He wandered into an empty room, having to duck to make it through the tunnel. It was labeled "NBE 01." So this was where Megatron had been frozen. The destroyed equipment had been cleared out save for some electrical cables, so he leaned Jazz's body against one side wall and retreated to the middle of the room. Moving slowly he lifted one leg and folded it back under him, repeating the process so he was kneeling on the concrete floor. This was going to take a long time, and falling over was a probable outcome of disconnecting his consciousness for long periods while standing. It took him only one such incident to know that everyone would panic and he would have to spend an even longer amount of time being coddled and convincing the witnesses that he was not an invalid.

Accessing the Matrix was a temporal conundrum and most unsettling. It felt like every moment was crawling by, when in reality time was flying. He felt like he had barely scratched the surface when, hours later, he was startled back into his corporeal state at the sound of a small hiccup from somewhere by his left knee. Had one of the sparklings escaped into his office again? he wondered, but as his systems rebooted he recalled that he was not in his office in Iacon, but a secret facility on the planet Earth. Thus when he heard a second hiccup, he scanned the area in confusion as to the source. He had to lean over his own bent legs to see the small, organic blue optics peeking wondrously up at him from the floor.

_Ah. The Lennox child._

Bending closer to her, and keeping his volume low, he lay his hand on the floor beside her. "You should not be wandering around down there, little one. There are wires everywhere and you could be hurt. Come up here, off the floor." He smiled at the way her mouth hung open in awe as she nodded furiously, clambering up into his hand with her eyes fixed firmly on his face, her denim jumper puffing out as she plopped into his palm.

Glad she was old enough to understand what he was telling her, he slowly brought her up to eye-level, his free hand –still black with char- hovering below its twin protectively. Unsure of how articulate she was, he decided to start the conversation with something basic. "Hello."

She hiccupped again, smiling and wringing her tiny hands sheepishly when he chuckled. "Hi!" her arm flashed out in a quick wave before settling back in her lap.

Optimus was beside himself with delight. "My name is Optimus Prime. I suppose just 'Optimus' would be easier for you, however. What is your name?"

She wasn't sure about all the other stuff, but _that _was a question she could answer. "An-na_belle!_" she sang out, giggling.

"Well that is a nice name. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Annabelle Lennox." Remembering a question the humans were fond of, he asked: "Do you know how old you are, little one?"

"Two!" she yelled as she thrust her little arm toward his face with two fingers protruding from her tiny fist.

Optics refocusing at the sudden proximity, Optimus's reaction was pure surprise. "Only two Earth years? My, that is young. You're just a little sparkling, aren't you?" He continued to study her small form with an intense fascination.

Seeing the pretty blue lights shine and spin like that, Annabelle couldn't resist the urge to touch. She reached toward his face with both hands, uttering a squeal of delight.

Startled, Optimus jerked his head back and engaged his battle mask. Through it he chastised her gently, "Annabelle, that was unsafe. You would not want those little hands of yours pinched in these big old faceplates or cut by the crystals in my optical units now would you?"

The little girl hiccupped again and looked like she was about to cry. The big, shiny man's face was scary now. Her lower lip was quivering and her eyes welled up with saline solution.

Well that posed a problem.

Optimus hit on the cause of her distress in time to avert tears. Much to her amazement he retracted the protective plating, though he maintained a more cautious distance. "Did I frighten you? I apologize. An old bot like me should know better, but you must not touch." Her response to this was… unexpected.

Face suddenly bright with glee, her hands flew to cover her face. Suddenly removing them, she yelled "Peeka-_boo!"_ right up at him, staring expectantly.

He nodded slowly in understanding. He extended his mask again and let the rarely-used optical protection under his helmet slide down into place before suddenly retracting them both. "Peek-a-boo!" he exclaimed back at her, smiling at her amusement.

She rocked back and forth in his palm in a fit of giggles, mashing her hands together in little claps. "Oppy-miss, An-nabelle play!"

"You know, I've become rather good at this 'Peek-a-boo' engagement over the millennia. It is by far my favorite game, because it is the only one I can play with little sparklings like you." Her hiccups were interspersed with wild laughter as she repeated the ritual flawlessly. "I admit I am surprised to find that humans are also skilled at this pastime," he paused while rearranging his countenance again, "Peek-a-boo! While I see the logic behind learning to protect your face, it seems somewhat ineffectual when you lack extra faceplates and must use something as fragile as your hands." Annabelle just grinned and covered her face for another round.

By the very Matrix, he missed this part of his job.

Something like Annabelle's hiccups drew his attention to the doorway, where Bumblebee waved sheepishly next to the two stunned Lennoxes. "Sir, the next time a human sparkling sneaks into your care, may I suggest that you alert his or her parents before engaging in diversionary tactics?" The yellow bot's big optics sparkled with silent laughter as the Supreme Commander blinked in revelation.

"Parents… I should have thought of that. It is a concept I am not yet accustomed to." He addressed the little girl in his palm before moving. "Sit still little Annabelle, we are going up." Much to Sarah's horror, he rose to his full height of almost forty feet. Though he was spotting her daughter with his other hand it still made her stomach flip over.

He strode cautiously over to them and crouched, lowering his happily giggling passenger to the level of her parents. She tried to cling to his thumb as Will extricated her, ("Noooo! Up, Oppy-miss, up!) before finally giving up in a pout. "Thanks for keeping her…occupied, sir." The soldier couldn't help the peculiar look that had crept onto his face at the sight of Optimus Prime playing Peek-a-boo with his daughter.

"It was no trouble on my part. I do apologize for not notifying you of her whereabouts; on Cybertron everyone always knew where to find them." He once again took on the intense, studious gaze that had bothered Sarah before. "I have not interacted with a being so young in…" he tilted his head, watching Anna hiccup and wrap herself around her father's neck while he ran the figures, "nearly forty-eight thousand years, by the Earth calendar. It was… quite refreshing, to converse with your daughter."

The Lennoxes locked alarmed eyes on each other. That explained a lot.

Sighing, Optimus stood back up and addressed the group. "Though the interruption was welcome, I suppose I should be getting back to my task." He gave Anna a little wave as her parents numbly nodded and turned to go. "Goodbye, Annabelle. I hope we can continue our conversation sometime soon."

"Oppy-miss An-nabelle play again _sooooon!"_ She wailed, climbing as far up over her father's shoulder as he would let her, waving both of her little arms. It was one of the bigger sentences she had come up with.

Smiling and waving back his voice followed her down the tunnel, "I would like that very much; but only if you are a good girl and your parents say yes."

Turning back to regard Jazz's body slumped against the wall of the empty room, his smile faded. Emitting one more addition to what had become a long history of sighs, he resigned himself to the prospect of mingling with the sparks in the Matrix instead of the delightful little child. He had never felt such regret over a change in company in his long life.

Interrupting his unhappy musings was a light tap on his arm. He looked down to find Bumblebee smiling up at him. As Optimus was about to ask what he found so amusing, the outer layer of the bot's helmet dropped down over his face with a _clink. _He emitted a short burst of the most basic Cybertronian syllables before flipping the facial armor back up and dashing out down the tunnel, warbling playfully as he went.

_Forty-eight thousand years of nothing but war, and he can still act like he was sparked this very vorn. _If that didn't make a hero in his estimation, he didn't know what did. Slowly replicating the actions of the game to the sound of the younger Autobot's retreating laugh, Optimus Prime found himself still smiling even as he knelt back down to re-access the Matrix. After all, even forty-eight thousand war-filled years after the fact, this old mech could still make the sparklings giggle.

And, Primus, if that wasn't the best sound in the whole universe.

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I totally don't revere Optimus Prime as a perfect being… what a silly thing to think…

It turned out less depressing than it was originally and I like it better this way. In my head I cast Annabelle as my little cousin, who was about that old the last time I saw her. I'm not fond of kids, but she's a pretty good one. She likes catching lightning bugs almost as much as I do and she's not too shabby at Peek-a-boo either.

Behold Atsuihanki, the robotic rice cooker! He really _is _Japanese!

Again, WAAAAAAAAY too cute for something I somehow remember writing. Cuteness on everyone else's scale? Who knows.

Peek-a-boo!


	29. Is As Does

**BOLD UPPERCASE WORDS!**

Now that I have your attention, I would like to say HOLY JUMP IN READERSHIP, BATMAN! Was it the change in my stuffy summary that sucked all of you new guys in? I'm curious.

And thanks for the billions of reviews! We've broken 150!

**DOES A BIG DANCE!**

In honor of the occasion, I'm uncharacteristically going to make official announcements.

1) Jazz's fate is sealed. Decided. Written. Done. Official.

2) I've started an honest-to-Primus sidefic. Much anticipated, if I'm one to judge. (evil grin) It's in my profile, so it's official. Be patient though; epics take time.

3) I so don't own Transformers.

Is As Does

It was _days_ later when Ratchet was feeling forgiving enough to release Prowl's stasis lock. He came to when Ironhide was being given his formal discharge and permission to go on light duty. The thunderous impacts to the floor as the big mech left jarred him out of recharge. He scrutinized the distracted medic suspiciously.

Noticing the new attention, Ratchet stalked up to loom over him with his arms crossed, tapping his foot expectantly.

"_Aren't you going to yell at me now? You might as well get it over with. I'm not sorry."_

The medic's optics rolled condescendingly. "Trying to change your mind is like trying to repair a fried relay with an impact drill."

So he was going to be difficult and use an Earth language. Prowl extracted the file- the file containing the _whole _language, with a few other ones thrown in- from Prime's transmission and installed it into his lingual processor. Cautiously he implemented it. "So you think it would be ineffectual?"

"No. It would be aggravating." His friend had that dangerous smirk on his face as he said that, flexing the wrist where said drill was stored. Then his tone turned serious, "I want to know _exactly _what you did and why. If your story is unsatisfactory, I _will _yell at you, shut you back down, and maybe wake you up in a few decades if your replacement parts ever arrive."

"And if it _is_ satisfactory?"

"Improbable. In that case, I would yell at you anyway and spend the next few decades trying to keep you conscious, most likely."

The security officer scowled. "Your concern is unnecessary; I feel fine. Has Prime been able to revive Jazz? I want to see him."

"He's been at it for four days and hasn't moved a millimeter. Your irrational compulsions can wait. _After _you tell me why you showed up missing five percent of your body mass I might feel inclined to escort you there." When Prowl reached for a hand up, Ratchet offered one and pulled him to his feet.

He stumbled, finding himself unbalanced. He quirked a frowning brow-plate at the medic in inquiry.

Looking rather smug, a yellow hand indicated the patched hole in Powl's side, which now matched the rest of him. "Since you took the liberty of removing a third of your energon capacity and left your spark wide open to attack, I decided you were getting some modifications whether you wanted them or not. I reconstructed part of your disabled circulation and patched in one of the spare cells that powers Ironhide's cannons. -He offered, but you'll likely never hear the end of it anyway. It's small and will only kick in to keep your others from burning out in an emergency, so don't think you can go overexerting yourself, either. And the humans were kind enough to collect the pieces of Long Haul, so I was able to put something between your spark and a bullet besides that scrap you brought with you."

_That _really burned Prowl up. He was about to start an argument when Ratchet decided to finish it before he got the chance.

"_No._ I don't want to hear a word about it, Prowl, and I mean it. It's the same slagging metal. If you think for a moment that I'm going to leave you any more defenseless than you already are, then maybe you don't remember me very well; my patients aren't allowed to die for stupid reasons. Now tell me _exactly _what happened, and you had better not leave anything out." His look meant business.

Unhappily the other bot decided he would avoid that battle- for now. "There isn't much to tell. We received Prime's message and all of the information he sent with it. Many have already left from Cybertron; but getting to the space bridges has been a problem, so there have been delays. It didn't take a genius to understand why Jazz's termination confirmation and a request for a Beta Class containment crystal came in the same message. Unfortunately most of the larger ships are gone and everyone is still scattered; there was no way a proper raid could be mounted. So I sent what was left of my team ahead and went to the mining cluster myself."

"A stupid decision."

"More than you know, but not one I regret. There weren't many Decepticons there, but Soundwave and Shockwave were both overseeing some kind of mining project personally and had reopened most of the tunnel-bridges between the asteroids. I was only able to get in because their two factions had some kind of ideological dispute, which turned into a brawl. I found a storeroom with a few salvageable crystals and made it back out, but the Decepticons had discovered my transport and destroyed it. I had no choice but to leave by way of the evacuation launch."

Ratchet shifted his weight in irritated understanding. "Thus you had to assume the form of an escape pod and, in order to take the crystal with you, you had to remove a handful of your vital workings to make room."

Prowl nodded. "But Ravage found me while I was holed up in the site's repair bay. Soundwave himself came after me with two of his little minions and some of the leftover Constructicons. Seems they have not forgotten how I ruined their gestalt. Soundwave emitted some kind of multi-spectrum pulse that fragged all of my sensors and comms; if I hadn't taken cover behind a support pylon I probably would have been blind and dead shortly thereafter. It felt like my spark was going to explode." He paused to see if Ratchet had some kind of addendum to the frightening new trick.

The medic's frown deepened. "If he discovered the right combination of sound and radiation frequencies to make stable, crystallized energon resonate- and I wouldn't put it past a signals expert of his caliber spending time in an energon mining cluster- it could cause such an effect. I believe Wheeljack tried something like it once. You're just lucky Soundwave isn't a risk-taker or an idiot. He could possibly modulate such a signal to destabilize the energon's structure entirely, and you would have suffered more than a few thousand fried relays. Or he might have blown up the entire mine; Wheeljack had no luck tightening the emission into less than a hemispherical projection before it exploded."

"Thanks for the sentiment, friend, but he did me one better. He ordered a Priority One hit and followed me."

88888888888888888

I dunno why I got so stuck on that title. Stupid? Heroic? Lucky? Who's to say what applies.

I guess I jumped the gun with the snow blower, so how about a leaf blower? I call him Whoosh, and he shoots a blast of leafy air strong enough to cause anyone a bad hair day.

Unless you're a mech.

Again, yeah, short chapter; OH THE _SHAME!_ That's why it's early. Duly ashamed.


	30. Plans Change for Everyone

I think I'm going back up on the evil scale. Wheeeeeeeeeee! Evil.

And I'm ashamed; this is barely over a page. But not _too _ashamed. I've been posting every day, after all. And I like the way it breaks. W00t for 30 chapters!

But I don't own Transformers. I'm just mean to them.

Plans Change

"He _what?!"_ Utterly furious, Ratchet grabbed Prowl by the wrist and dragged him- slowly, mustn't overtax the invalid's energy cells now- through the facility toward Optimus Prime. Their problems had just gotten a whole lot bigger.

And so did their fan club; as they passed Bumblebee looked worriedly after them and went to seek out Ironhide with Sam and Mikaela dashing after his yellow heels.

Still wanting to see Prime, and hopefully Jazz, Prowl allowed himself to be led until they were standing outside the doorway. "Ratch, don't get your servos jammed; he never followed me through the space bridge and Shockwave countermanded the order. They're probably still arguing about it. The two of them were pretty deeply involved in whatever they were mining for and I doubt any of them have the luxury of being able to pick up and leave like that. Long Haul just made it a personal vendetta; we have time."

"_Time?_ Time before what? He makes an energon bomb big enough to destroy this planet and brings it with him? Or assembles a fleet? I don't know much about what goes on in Soundwave's CPU, Prowl, but if he _personally _chased you, you might have stumbled on something important. I don't think he makes a habit of hunting down stray chunks of useless containment energon. Nor do I believe he spontaneously assigns random angry Constructicons his precious symbiotes as partners!"

Shocked by the medic's tirade, Prowl re-ran that last sentence through his processor to make sure it had been translated correctly. "What partner? What are you talking about?"

Ratchet shook his head. "I personally dismantled Long Haul to be disposed of in Earth's ocean while you were in stasis. Something clawed its way out of his chest after I cut him down, and I was so preoccupied with you and Ironhide I never even checked him before I left the scene. One of those little beasts is on the loose under Soundwave's direction and we have no way of knowing what it's up to."

Prowl frowned. "He only had two of them with him in the mine; Ravage and Ratbat. He really must be up to something if he's stretched himself so thinly."

"Exactly. And every moment that goes by Soundwave is in six or seven places at once, planning Primus-knows-what that involves a lot of high-grade crystal energon. We need to tell Optimus as soon as he comes back to us."

A deep, tired rumble issued from the room outside which they loitered, "No need. I have been listening."

"You've finished?!" Prowl was immediately in the room, Ratchet only a step behind. They were followed by Bumblebee leading Ironhide along by the arm and three humans like some kind of mismatched conga line, but of them only the black mech entered the room. The others waited respectfully in the tunnel at Bumblebee's behest.

They all witnessed the new arrival shaking Jazz,"You fragger! You scared the living _spark_ out… of…"

66666666666666666666

Noes. Cliffhanger.

But I'm posting two. So I'm not _that _ashamed, you see.

Transforming Batmobile, in honor of Halloween. It's like he's dressing up!

I completely forgot yesterday _was_ Halloween until it was already today. Now _that's _shameful.

Feel free to express yourselves before moving on. It isn't good to keep these things bottled up, you know.


	31. Nothing Broken

I don't own Transformers.

Nothing Broken, But it Still Hurts

"_You scared the living spark out… of…"_

"…me." He turned to Prime with wide, pained optics. "What happened?" He croaked.

Optimus shook his head just a little. "Jazz was… elusive even in life. It is beyond my power to reach him." He sighed heavily, "I am sorry, Prowl." He sounded older than usual; defeated.

"You have to try again! We can't give up on him! He's supposed to _live, _damn it!" Optimus had no answer for the grieving mech.

But Ironhide, _he_ had had enough. He snarled and stomped over to Prowl, accosting him by the arm and hauling him around so they were face to face. "If that were true, he would _be _here. You have to let him go; he has earned his rest."

"No. We can still help him; he must be in there somewhere_. We just have to try harder!"_

"_**You think Optimus wasn't trying?!"**_the burly mech bellowed down at him. "Do you think you could do better, Prowl?" The bot in question stared indignantly up at him. "Primus, I had better not have to deal with this kind of slag when I'm good and gone. He's where he's meant to be, and he has every right to stay there. And I sure as the Pit won't be one to try taking that away from 'im." Ironhide let go of the smaller Autobot with a light shove and stamped out of the room, fuming. Looking back worriedly, Lennox jogged after him. Finding things tenser than they expected, the three younger spectators nervously made their way back out of earshot.

Prowl's fist clenched, but he could come up with nothing else to say. Ratchet wouldn't look him in the eye, and when he tried to force the issue by moving closer, the medic sadly shook his head, "Prowl… sometimes there's just nothing broken left to fix," he murmured and walked out.

Clenching both optics shut and whirling to plead his case to his leader, Prowl was startled to find himself eye-level with his tired commander's sad gaze. The diminished difference in height was… odd.

"Sir…I…" Met with that stare, which dimmed noticeably when faced with his own, he found there was nothing more he could ask of Optimus Prime. He turned back away to avoid that blank, deferential look and regarded the limp body of his friend, "He swore someday, he _swore_ we would laugh about how he snuck into my office and re-catalogued all of my personnel profiles by armor color." His face was only inches from Jazz's. "I'm not laughing yet. _I'm still angry, you meddlesome little spy!"_ he slammed his fists into the wall above the silver antlers."

"_Awww, Prowl…"_

Confused by his leader's tone, Prowl turned and saw Prime's optics flickering weakly and going out as he dropped into stasis.

"_**RATCHET!!!"**_


	32. Back to Binary

**teh: **What do you _mean_ 'hankypanky?!' There's no hankypanky! And I'm only obvious because you read _minds!_

**HotShot14:** I don't know, but welcome onboard all the same!

**Bluebird Soaring: **It's all about the cookies, isn't it. My story is getting fat…

I'm sorry for leaving you like that; I know it was mean and may have caused health problems for some of you. (Sorry **myrmidryad!**) I hope these next two make up for it.

This chapter relies _heavily _on character voice and is meant to be incomplete and a bit abstract. I just hope my voices are up to the task…

I do not own Transformers. I just decide what happens to them.

Back to Binary

When Optimus's reboot cycle reactivated his optical units, he found the room more crowded and much louder than he remembered it. No… perhaps not much louder. Not outwardly, anyway, but Ratchet was right in front of him and he couldn't hear a word.

_A little warning would have been appreciated, _was his first thought, but he couldn't find it in himself to be bitter. He never did.

A little unsteady, he hauled himself to his feet. It seemed like he had to rise miles just to stand up. His officers all lurched as if to catch hold of him, but he waved them off. He did not have far to go, and he would not fall. Too preoccupied to say anything to the scowling and worried faces around him, he just took a moment to focus.

_Slag, what's wrong with you, Prime? Snap out of it._

_You gonna make it, boss?_

_Optimus, are you feeling alright? You were unresponsive for three full hours…_

_I am sorry sir…_

_You two should not stand so close, in case Optimus decides to move._

_Not too old for this, are you?_

_I should have controlled my temper._

_That's right, you fragging should have. The Matrix isn't something to mess with._

_You should listen to the ol' gun turret. He's got ya there._

_Are you certain he will be alright, sir?_

_You sure this is gonna work, big guy? _

…_You sure you want it to?_

Finally getting a handle on his surroundings, he broke out of his inertia. One long, slow step at a time. But everything around him seemed to move faster, out of synch.

_I finish what I begin. _

_And what is it you think you've started now?_

_Oh, many things. Extinction. Survival. An end of an era, I suppose. I did start it; it is only fair that I must finish it also._

_So you know what you're givin' up?_

Finally, he was there. He knelt again, carefully, feeling like he was floating down from a great height. He exposed the glittering crystal before him with practiced ease; pulled a sliver of gold from the inside of the armor on his forearm.

_Of course._ _The greatest joy, but perhaps also the greatest sorrow. Our development and our entropy. A safeguard and a danger; importance and expendability. Source and progeny. The cost is indeed high._

An outward tug on his chest and he was causing a flurry of activity. Unable to concentrate properly in the panic, he gestured for silence.

_And you're sure you don't wanna hang on to what's left of it?_

A pull upward and downward simultaneously, and there was a new light in the room.

_It must be done. There was too much power, too much waste. It is fitting that I can only end it with an atrocity and a miracle, don't you agree?_

Finally. A firm grasp on the frame; a twist all the way around, and it clicked into place.

_If you say so._ _Fire it up, Optimus._

_Absolution and condemnation… thus we become relics…_

"…a relic? 'M not _that_ old…"

And the Universe felt no more for Cybertron.

88888888888888888888

'And then something vague happened.' –Ancient Plot Device.

Narcisson is an evil hairdryer. He'll give you split ends. _Evil _split ends.

I realize Optimus was pretty useless at explaining the vagueness; I guess he's just too used to it to comment. And the poor guy isn't entirely lucid… But I do hope that had some meaning for you anyway, I'm going to get us a second perspective so we know the other half of the story. (the one for us non-mystical beings) Fear not; I'm editing it now.

I leave it to you then.


	33. The Other Side

**Tomorrow4eva: **Don't fret over Prowl. This is his one-and-only angst attack as far as I'm concerned; it just happened to happen early in his introduction. I'd give you a refund for the vague snippet, but I'm not getting paid… XP

This is the last post of the week. Put those defibrillators away; it's a normal one that pretty much gets rid of all the Vague. I understand the mixed reviews, but I just couldn't resist my only chance to do something really abstract ;P Onward!

I don't own Transformers, and sadly I don't profit from this story.

Shame? What shame? There's 9 pages here!

The Other Side

When Ratchet had dragged Prowl toward the NBE 01 chamber, two thoughts crossed Bumblebee's CPU. Either Jazz was alive again or something had come up. So, hopeful and dutiful, he tracked down the weapons specialist, who had gone to find out the status of the Lennox family in person, and led the larger mech and the three humans after the pair.

He clearly did not anticipate the emotional gravity of the situation.

Stunned to see the characteristically calm, composed Security Chief shaking Jazz and finding him still inanimate, something in the yellow bot's spark wrenched painfully. How could that be?

He never expected Ironhide to lay into Prowl like that. Of everyone, Bumblebee thought that the stubborn black mech would have been the last to give up on Jazz. Then he stormed out of the room, obviously upset and muttering incomprehensible oaths that made the Army Captain pursue him in concern. At this Bumblebee knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he and his friends shouldn't be there, and ushered them down the tunnel to wait for things to cool down.

"Um, Bee…"

"I'm sorry Sam, but this isn't the time."

"Ok, that's cool." He and Mikaela leaned close together against the tunnel wall next to his leg, waiting for whatever sign Bee was waiting for.

Whatever it was, an echoing, stony _crunch _and a wordless snarl echoing down the dim concrete tube and Ratchet's optics burning brightly with grief as he stalked toward them was not it. Nor was the vague echo of an anguished voice and the pounding sound drifting out of the room he had left.

Or the scream of Ratchet's name.

To the medic's credit, Bumblebee had never seen him move faster. _Ever._ In the span of a blink he was gone, back at his distraught friend's side, no doubt. When Sam and Mikaela looked from the end of the tunnel to him questioningly he shrugged, warily creeping his way back to the source of the noise, the humans staying so close they were nearly tripping over each other to follow him.

In the wall just outside the door was the perfect concrete print of a fist. That didn't bode well for the already deteriorating emotional situation in the Autobot ranks, Bumblebee decided.

He peeked in as unobtrusively as he could, lamenting that he could not always find Prime smiling and playing with a child. His very spark stuttered when he saw that Optimus's optics were dark.

The human exclamations of surprise were the only warning he had before he was shoved into the room to allow Ironhide and his considerable bulk passage.

"If that naïve whelp did something stupid to get Jazz back…" The whine of charging energy projectiles was threat enough. The two teenagers barely escaped being kicked and stepped on by the distracted hulk.

Bumblebee ushered his charges to the back of the room so they would no longer be underfoot. A moment later, Lennox ran back in and skirted the mechanoids to stand with them. "I think I should just give up trying to follow that guy…" From his sweaty, distressed looks it seemed that Ironhide hadn't thought to alter his pace for the smaller being.

Meanwhile, Ratchet was busy running every scan he knew on his deathly still commander, growling in frustration. "There's nothing _wrong _with him! He's low on energy, but should not have shut down like that. Are you _certain _nothing happened, Prowl?" he asked over his shoulder at the worried security officer.

"Yes," Ironhide growled, "Do tell."

But he just shook his head and shrugged helplessly, "I was upset, I admit. But I only yelled at… at _Jazz_ and hit the wall," he indicated the spot, which added a flourish of cracks to the décor à la Megatron. "Nothing else happened. He said my name, but when I turned around, his optics were already flickering out. That's why I yelled for you." He still seemed shaken, but was much more composed than he had been a moment before. Prowl was a good mech to have in a crisis.

"He didn't say anything else? Not the whole time you were in here?" Ironhide was suddenly frowning pensively.

"No, nothing. No words of wisdom, not even that he was tired. He just sat there looking at me." Prowl's face twisted into a guilty grimace. He remembered thinking that being at optic-level with Prime had been odd; he had never even considered how strange the silence and that blank look were for the supportive Autobot Commander.

"Flickering is a symptom of a sudden drop into stasis. He would not have had time to say anything if it was unexpected." The multiple rings of mechanisms around Ratchet's own optics were spinning wildly in any number of directions, no doubt in response to the huge number of scans he ran and the readouts he was analyzing.

Ironhide moved to tower over Prowl, crossing his arms –no small feat over the bulk of his broad chest- which made him very imposing. More so than usual. "Is there nothing else you found abnormal? No change in his manner, nothing else you thought was off?" His small, deep-set optics protected by bars of chromed metal bored into the smaller mech, making him stiffen.

Relatively unphased, the security officer wracked his memory. "I… well, he did look drained, of course. His optics were so dim; I should have said something about it. _Done_ something. And when he spoke… he didn't sound like himself. He must have been exhausted to sound like that."

"Like what?" Those strips of searching blue light were getting uncomfortable to look at.

"Like he was the saddest mech in the universe. Like he was admitting defeat. Like… like someone sounds when they've lost their best friend. It didn't sound like him." Prowl was beginning to feel a little flustered under the cold scrutiny. 

"Then did he sound like someone else?"

"_What? _What are you talking about?" This was getting ridiculous. Prowl instinctively took as step back when the bigger mech invaded his space.

"Never mind. You say his optics looked dim. What, _exactly, _do you mean?" Ironhide advanced a step for every one Prowl took backwards.

"When I looked at him, they got dimmer. He looked… distant, too. That's all." Prowl's concern only deepened when he found his back against the wall, the humans having already scurried out of their way.

But that was when Ironhide backed off. He nodded, looking satisfied with the interrogator-turned-subject's answers. He tromped back over to Ratchet as if he hadn't been menacing his superior officer a moment before. "Have you found anything yet?"

"No, and I don't think I'm going to. He should be functioning perfectly." Frustration radiated off the medic like the glow of his garish armor under the fluorescent lights.

"Good. He should come around on his own, once things settle down. All we have to do is wait." And, planting himself firmly at Optimus's side, that seemed like it was exactly what he planned to do.

This immediately piqued Ratchet's interest. He turned from the kneeling statue and lifted a brow-plate, slipping into his signature 'this-had-better-be-good,' deceivingly light tone. "Oh? And what, pray tell, does the _weapons _specialist know about an inexplicable instance of spontaneous shut-down? I am all audios."

Ironhide scoffed. "It has nothing to do with what I do or what I know about. But I _have_ seen this before and it shouldn't have any lasting effects."

Ratchet clearly expected an elaboration of sorts, but the entire room waited in suspense for several minutes before it became clear he wouldn't get one. The irritated mech rolled his optics and scowled, "Fine. Don't tell the medic what's going on. He clearly understands why Prime is unresponsive and how to help him if something goes wrong," he groused sarcastically, flinging his arms down in irritation.

"It's not something I'm proud of."

"Well, if something does happen, I'll at least know to blame it on your pride."

That stung. "Yes, that's usually how it goes. If you want an old story to waste your time, fine. If you must know, I wasn't always a shining example of maturity, and I didn't get along with Optimus Prime for a long time after he received the Matrix. I was angry and reckless and nearly slagged myself disobeying his orders. He did the hard thing and, rather than throwing me in the brig for as long as I deserved, made me his escort until I stopped being a dangerous glitch. It didn't go well; I even made an aft of myself when the next batch of sparklings were due. Thought I was too tough to follow a pacifist around the safest place in Iacon. Naturally he spent far too long, in my less-than-humble opinion, just sitting there accessing the Matrix and channeling the Allspark over and over. By the time he was done, he was nearly recharging on his feet and not all of his circuits seemed closed, if you catch my meaning. I said something about preferring to be on the receiving end of an incendiary cannon to following him around looking pretty, and suddenly I was dangling a meter off the floor."

Bumblebee chirped in shock and Ratchet looked mildly amused. "He wasn't in the mood for your wise opinion, was he? Can't say I blame him." Prowl looked to be in deep thought leaning against the wall.

Ironhide shook his head, banishing the idea with the wave of a thick metal arm. "No, you don't get it. Optimus Prime had set himself up for a game of waiting; I could have complained until I rusted in old age and he would have just minded my language and made his disgustingly polite replies. Prime _Nova, _however, was not pleased with the kind of bot I had become, and he picked me up like I was a youngling again. Told me just how disappointed he was and how much better he had expected of me." Ironhide seemed to take immense satisfaction in the dressing-down the long-deceased Templar had given him as an adult defense officer.

"_Prime Nova?_ _The _Prime Nova?"

Ironhide grunted in the affirmative. "He was my hero when I was a youngling, like everyone idolizes the one who sparked them. I was lucky enough to get to know him a little; I underwent training under Senturion, one of his senior officers. Optimus didn't fit with my idea of what a leader should be, so I had to learn the hard way that the Matrix is not always a passive relic and Prime is more than meets even the most scrutinizing optic. He later implied that Nova and Senturion both gave him as much a talking to as I had received. It only took him a few _breems_ to come back online afterward. It scared the spark out of me and the resident fabrication engineers made a fuss, but the Chief Manager didn't seem very concerned."

Ratchet looked surprised and regarded Ironhide with relief. "I had no idea you were _that_ old. So we just wait?"

"We wait."

"And, out of curiosity, when you refer to this _Senturion_..?"

"I believe you would know him better as Sentinel Prime."

"I see. And when you refer to that _particular _Chief Manager you mean..?"

"Elita One."

The minutes went on and, in the case of the Autobots, everyone was too dumbfounded to come up with anything to say. The humans were just too confused and wary of interrupting a touchy moment. The endless list of 'Things to Ask Bee About Later" was now accompanied by a substantial "Things to Drill Sam For Later" and a newly titled "Ironhide and I Need to Have a Man-to-Robot About (blank) Soon."

Ratchet did, however, come up with one more clever but insensitive thing to say before the waiting descended into silence.

"Ironhide?"

Mock-irritated grunt.

"_You_ are an artifact."

Sound of hydraulic displeasure.

"That was a compliment."

"You fooled me."

And they waited.

And waited…

And waited some more.

For three hours straight the group stood vigil. Lennox only left to grab some lunch for himself and the young couple, but ended returning with his wife and child as well. Sarah wasn't keen on the two of them loitering by themselves in the huge secret complex. When some of the facility's agents came to see what was going on, however, Ironhide told them very bluntly to leave. He was so insistent that he didn't even bother tacking on a threat corresponding to noncompliance. There were no further interruptions.

A restless Prowl eventually tried to start pacing, but was stopped mid-stride by a threatening wave of Ratchet's wrench, accompanied by a pointed (or perhaps point_y_) reminder as to his current status of restricted activity. Thereafter he stood silently, his expression unreadable, with posture so rigid it looked like it hurt.

The humans sat together in a little semi-circle, their backs to a relatively undamaged corner of the room. Bumblebee crouched before them, quietly fielding their whispered questions about Jazz and Prime. He was surprised and impressed when Annabelle immediately labeled him "Big yellow-car fairy!" with pride. He hadn't expected her to associate him with the yellow Camaro of several days ago, and was amused that his sensory arrays produced the analogy to small, winged creatures of human folklore. He found himself quite as curious about children, and little girls specifically, as the Earth natives were about Autobots. Their quiet whispers and the occasional mechanical whirr were the only noises in the silent hangar.

Suddenly a humming sound and a series of quiet chirps broke the hush. When Optimus's optics onlined, though they were still terribly dim, everyone stirred.

Ratchet was immediately in front of him, scanning for abnormalities. "He's coming back online. Strange, only his basic subroutines are activating. His higher functions aren't launching at all." Trying to get a better look, Sam and Mikaela crept around beside the medic.

Ironhide growled with worry, "Slag, what's wrong with you, Prime? Snap out of it. Whatever's going on in there, tell them to just frag off and come back to us, you hear me?"

"Yes, Ironhide, I'm sure that's just how it works with the Matrix," Ratchet hissed. He tried addressing his superior, "Optimus, are you feeling alright? You were unresponsive for three full hours, four times as long as Ironhide had guessed based on his experience. Can you hear me?"

There was no response, but the Autobot Commander finally moved, cocking his head with spinning audios as if he were listening intently to something. He slowly pulled one leg out from under him, planting his foot on the floor. With a great heave, he lurched to his feet all at once. Only a clumsy wave of rejection prevented the other bots from offering him their support before he went still again.

Prowl stepped forward and made the apology he knew he owed. "I am sorry sir," he briefly glanced at Bumblebee, who was cautioning the pair of Earthlings to get back out of the way, "I should have controlled my temper. It was inappropriate, even under the circumstances."

Ironhide was unmoved. "That's right, you fragging should have. The Matrix isn't something to mess with; if you'd get your optics off the floor you'd see he's not even here."

Ratchet was somewhat in awe. "This is incredible. Physically he's fully functional, but his CPU is barely running at minimum capacity. If he's aware of anything right now, it's purely on a metaphysical level. It doesn't _seem _dangerous, but I can't fathom how he's operating that way."

Bumblebee looked rather distressed. "Are you _certain _he will be alright, sir? He doesn't look well…"

As if to illustrate this sentiment, the large mech began moving at an excruciatingly slow pace, each foot moving like it belonged to some stiff, mechanical toy, landing heavily on the concrete. He stopped in front of Jazz and let first one leg and then the other buckle under him. When he reached forward and slid Jazz's chest plate upward to reveal the glittering crystal nestled there, everyone halted their respective methods of air intake.

And then his arms lifted slowly, moving to his chest. They pulled the armor plates there outward, locking them open. The older Autobots let out shocked curses.

"…Should we leave..?" Bumblebee suggested timidly.

When Optimus raised a hand in a demand for silence, they took it as a 'no.'

Seemingly having recovered from the interruption, he continued his work. He vertically opened a second hatch in his chest. When he reached inside the cavity, the flames on his arms were traced by arcs of blue light. He took hold of something and, spinning it like some great silver valve, pulled out the Matrix. It locked into place just outside of his chest panels.

The bars of the frame were carved with symbols like those decorating the Allspark; the surface of the sphere was like a golden mirror. But the light that shone from the lens in its front was the most beautiful white shimmer.

"…_thus we become relics…"_

No one had noticed that Prime was holding the little gold sliver until blue energy coursed from his hand up his arm, through his chassis, and fizzled into the Matrix frame. The ball of radiance that burst from the lens into the comparatively dimly glittering energon crystal was beautiful but blinding.

Jazz's body seized. His optics flickered to life and his voice processor crackled to life, "…relic? 'M not _that _old…" One arm absently tugged his chest plate back into place as he tried to get a handle on his surroundings. He smiled weakly at a dumbfounded Prowl, "Hey, guys. Wha's… what's kickin'?"

Ironhide stomped over to the spy, studying him with a frown. When the smaller bot offered him a thumbs-up –as much as Jazz _had _a 'thumb' among his radially-symmetrical four digits- he gave a snort of mild disgust. "You actually came back, you glitching idiot."

Rearranging himself in less of a haphazard slump and more of a casual lean, the silver bot shrugged, "What can I say? I may be a sneaky lil' bastard, but I ain't a liar. I keep my promises. Every one o' them." He winked at Prowl, who looked like he couldn't decide whether to return the smile or go back to shaking the frustrating spy.

Seeing that Jazz was indeed back among the living, it didn't take long for him and everyone else in the room to crowd around and offer their –congratulations? thanks? scoldings? whatever- to the much-missed Covert Ops Commander.

Over all the commotion he finally managed to get a word in edgewise. "I don't mean to be a drag, but I feel like I got stepped on by Megs, ripped in half, and had my spark run through one o' them 'washing machines.' Could a bot maybe get some shuteye around here?" His lazy grin immediately thwarted any overwhelming senses of pity anyone might have developed.

Ratchet was overjoyed, "That is the first sensible thing I have heard all day. Why don't we get you out to the other room and you, Prowl, and Optimus can go on a good, long stint of inactive duty _together."_ Bumblebee interrupted his happy power-trip with a tap on the shoulder. "What is it, Bumblebee?"

"Optimus already left."

While Ratchet got his other two priso- I mean, _patients _settled, Ironhide followed Optimus's rather extensive trail of witnesses outside. He found the conspicuous vehicle parked in the visitors' lot above the dam, already in a deep recharge cycle. A man and his offspring were having their picture taken with the impressive truck. After waiting for them to leave, the black GMC sidled up into the next two spaces with a grumble of good-natured irritation.

"I'm going to spend the rest of my life following you around looking pretty and watching your back, aren't I?" he joked with no one. Eyeing the construction still going on to repair the dam's power grid, he sighed. "If only I was that lucky…" He settled down to watch the human tourists scurry by in the summer heat.

Somewhere along the line, he had discovered that the peaceful moments were the best ones. He wondered if that wasn't what the Autobot beside him had intended to teach him all along.

"Frag, I really _must_ be getting old."

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Did that help? If not, Jumpstart is a transforming defibrillator! He'll help you out… or kill you…

Is everyone happy now? I sure am. **JAZZ IS BACK! **Whoopee! I missed him.

I hope the feds know how to party.


	34. Coffee Breakdown

I'm sorry about earlier. I was editing my story, posted the wrong text in chapter 27, and when notified of it, proceeded to post the correct text as a new chapter. I really hate when stories get bumped that way, so I'm posting a real chapter to make it up for you. It's a quirky, fluffy one after all the emotional stuff I've been throwing out there.

Thanks a million **Kyme!**

I don't own Transformers.

Coffee Breakdown

Secretary Hewitt, during all this, was holed up in the conference room buried under a stack of papers and surrounded by phones in front of her computer. When the President had gone back to D.C., she and Keller had split up to cover more ground. He went back to the capitol to start working on the 'Robot Issue' from that end while she went through all the Sector Seven records and established some kind of official authority over the place.

Initially he had argued, not wanting her to bite off more than she could chew, to which she replied, "John, my job is a PR stunt and a joke. For the last six months all I've been doing is taking the papers with the word 'terrorist' in them off of Melvin's desk, reading the words 'national security' off them to the press, and handing them to the military powers that be. Can't I do something secure the homeland for once?"

And he could hardly argue with that.

So just as he had anticipated, she had barely slept or eaten while trying to figure out exactly what Sector Seven _did. _At the moment she was looking at an expense report from the recent interior reconstruction, which was happening at an unprecedented pace.

And besides, someone had to keep an eye on Simmons.

Speaking of the little devil, the nosey man himself strode self-importantly into the room that very moment. "You called for me, Ma'am?" He offered a cheesy grin that made her roll her eyes over the boxes of hard-copy reports.

"Yes. There seem to be some… oddities in the recent expenditures. I was hoping you could shed some light on why we need an in-house Starbucks, among other things." She crossed her arms and waited for his response.

"I realize some of my methods seem… unorthodox. But when you've been in the secret government facility business for as long as I have, you learn some valuable tricks of the trade. Walk with me?" He put on his most charming look and offered her his arm.

Hewitt refused it. But, nothing if not curious, she stood and picked her way out of the paper fortress nonetheless.

He led her down the stairs and into the Allspark cavern, rambling about his secret escapades the whole time. "Until the year 2000, NBE 01, a.k.a. _Megatron _was kept frozen via freon refrigeration. The entire room was an ice box; very hard to do research in. You remember the California blackouts in 2000 and 2001? We engineered the energy crisis as a cover-up for our drain on the power grid while we were switching to liquid nitrogen cryogenics. We had to run both systems on and off until we got it right."

"Is there any crisis in this country you _didn't _use to hide the alien robots?" she joked.

Simmons grinned, "We had nothing to do with the Exxon Valdez. But using the military experiments at Area 51 was a brilliant decoy, don't you think? This place is the source of modern technology _and _modern history; the most elaborate conspiracy ever successfully carried out. Hopefully it will stay that way."

"I still don't see why you need a Starbucks." The scandalized Hewitt grumbled as they made their way across the enormous room to said source of caffeinated beverages.

The mild smell of paint fumes wafted out as Simmons held the door for her, jogging after her as she marched brusquely to the counter. A bored-looking agent was on duty there. "I'd like a Grande Mochaccino, please."

When she reached for her purse, Simmons stopped her. "We have an… arrangement, of sorts with the company. We pay monthly instead of by-the-beverage. I'll have a double Venti Macchiato, Jim."

As the alien researcher-turned-barista went to work behind the counter muttering, "Grande mochaccino… Venti macchiato, two shots espresso…" Simmons leaned against the coffee bar like he lived there.

"You see this place?" He waved an arm to grandly indicate the kingdom of beans and creamer, "When we were switching the freezer to LiNi- that's liquid nitrogen around here- there were periods where we nearly lost cryo containment. When the pipes cracked or the monitoring system froze solid, no one slept for days at a time. In this line of work, there's no second string. When everyone has to be on deck, this place runs on coffee. Java. Joe. Double-Venti macchiatos. We used to use the café upstairs in the visitor center, but with the new arrivals that has become unfeasible. Tom theorizes that the aliens only need to rest for a few hours every few days; we need to keep up with them and not lose morale." He took his large drink from the other agent and breathed in the aroma with a sigh. "Ma'am, I've been doing this for twenty years. I've done studies on coffee consumption and productivity in this facility and others, and I've seen a direct correlation between base efficiency and the quality of the coffee break." Again he held the door for her on the way out.

"Really? You've _studied _that?" she _was _appreciating her little coffee-chocolate hybrid after sitting in that cluttered conference room for eight hours without moving. And, if they had a mind to stay, the subdued lighting, warm colors, soft music, and plush couches were definitely soothing. She wasn't entirely convinced, however. "So how do you staff this place? You can't all honestly take turns. Secret agents tailoring drinks; _that's_ overqualified."

"I'm glad you mentioned it. The Barista Internship is one of my proudest creations, and one of the most successful ways to bring good people into the family of secret base operations. It's extremely competitive."

"Let me get this straight. You train your agents by having them make _coffee?_ No wonder John says you're strange."

Simmons laughed as they strolled down a tunnel of his choice. "It's all about getting them on the scene. They're already the best and brightest selected from colleges across the country with some kind of intelligence training. The select few who are chosen for the internship get to interact with real secret agents in or near a real secret facility before being thrown into the nasty stuff. They are put under constant surveillance, taught to memorize elaborate sets of procedures. It's a good way for us to give them valuable experience _and _test their character before trusting them with greater responsibility. A lot of our best agents come out of that program; the Barista Internship has a one-hundred-percent record of producing viable, stable agents."

"I see. I must admit I'm curious to see if it really works. I'll have to think about it before I give the go-ahead on the budget, mind you. It still seems a bit ridiculous." She still looked skeptical, but her eyes widened as they emerged from the end of the tunnel. "What's all this..?"

The NBE 01 chamber had been renovated almost overnight, though it wasn't yet finished. Scaffolding scaled the high walls from floor to ceiling; rings of vertically staggered platforms with open lifts from one to the next were being installed almost all the way around and all the way up the chamber. Bumblebee was talking to Sam and some construction workers on the far side, who had climbed a scaffold to stand one of the lower tiers.

"As much as we need a place for coffee and conversation for ourselves, I assumed we'd need the same with our new guests. This area is being refitted as a place to speak more easily with the NBEs. Here we can communicate comfortably with any alien of any height. The cryo-equipment spaces behind the walls are being outfitted as offices and communications centers. Eventually we plan to install large flat-screens over there-" he indicated an empty space high up on the back wall "- so we can have video conferences with them as well. In a week we'll be up and running as a fully-functional diplomatic facility."

"This is exactly the forum we need. Simmons," she turned to the grinning agent with a judicious respect, "I'm going to let you keep your Starbucks, but don't think I won't keep an eye on your coffee fixation as well. And I want everything spelled out plain and recorded in plain English; the reports I've been digging through might as well be in code. If you can pull all this off, I think we'll have to be reacquainted. Without the kidnapping part."

Simmons grinned all the more charmingly, "Glad to be of service, Ms. Secretary. Might I show you what NBE Ratchet has had us do to the old Alien Experiments room?" He again offered an elbow.

This time she took it, laughing at the overly-chivalrous gesture. "I'd like that." She shot him a suspicious look, "But if you're up to something…"

"I wouldn't dream of it. Now, I suppose you remember the Dot Com crash in the stock market…?"

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There he goes again. I researched the history of refrigeration and California power regulation for this. Curse authenticity.

Love to the readers! I don't have time for a new robot right now, but does anyone have more fun synonyms for coffee? I feel like an aficionado like Simmons would drop some weird ones.


	35. Trapped Like Robots

Alrighty, I'm pretty sure I've got everything fixed. And I don't own Starbucks, in case everyone was wondering. My college town won't even let one set up shop here. Winter is coming, and I really miss their caramel cider and hot chocolate… TT

Everyone, if you love mechs like I _LOVE _MECHS (!!!) go watch Tengen Toppa Gurren Lagann! It's possibly the most badass mech action ever to happen in anime.

I don't own Transformers! I'll learn to accept that someday…

My name is Laria, and I have a problem. I'm addicted to my fanfiction story. (sigh)

Trapped Like Robots

They were trapped, and they couldn't get out. It was terrifying.

Well, Jazz reflected, it might have been terrifying. Once upon a time, he might have been restless and tried to escape. But right now he just kicked back on the robot-sized table where he was being monitored and enjoyed the saga of medbay-style entertainment.

Standing next to him Prowl was gallantly losing the argument about the armor grafted from Long Haul's body into his chest. And the one about not being allowed to leave Ratchet's sight until his power supply was regulated to his satisfaction. And the one about the medic himself getting some rest. Ratchet was on a roll.

When he had heard what Prowl had gone through to bring him a new containment crystal, Jazz had been more than a little shocked and a tad appalled. But over the past few hours, he'd come to accept that taking on an impossible mission all alone and tearing out his own circuitry were just the stoic bot's way of saying he cared. Jazz was duly touched.

But when the wrench came out, the spy left his reverie for a more alert state, considering intervention.

"_No! _I don't care if every slagging Autobot in the galaxy is missing, you're not going anywhere! Unless you _want_ to spontaneously pass out in the hallway again?"

"You don't understand. They should _be _here by now. I gave them specific instructions to come directly here to join up with Optimus and yourselves; they should have arrived weeks before me."

"Those two wouldn't go straight to a raging party if you ordered them to out of principle. They're probably off playing some ridiculously dangerous game with the unwitting Decepticons trying to kill them just so they don't show up undamaged."

"What if they _were_ damaged like I was? They could be here already and not be able to communicate. They are _my _responsibility, and I should go look for them."

Ratchet was getting more cross by the minute. "You most certainly should not. I won't say that the twins can take care of themselves; Primus knows I've spent half my life putting them back together. But they haven't been hauled in dead yet, sometimes I think purely to spite me. They'll come make a mess of things when they're good and slagged, mark my words." He couldn't hide a frown of worry, though.

Prowl was about to try his hand again when Jazz decided to cut in, "Man, you gotta have a little faith in those boys. The little glitches are luckier than the rest o' us combined."

He raised his hands at the admonishing look Prowl cast upon him, "Hey, I just call it like I see it, and if those two were dead already, I'm pretty sure the afterlife woulda been a lot less peaceful. An' tha's all I have to say about that." His comment and lopsided grin won a half-hidden snicker from the medic.

Outnumbered and out-witted, all the security chief could do was glare at the spy and frown.

When Optimus Prime rolled in from the low-ceilinged tunnel, they all straightened up, wiped their respective frowns and grins off their faceplates, and regarded their leader as he finished transforming.

For a moment he just looked at them oddly, then shook his head and sighed, "You can put your optics back in their sockets. I just came to have my joints recalibrated, as per Ratchet's orders."

Said medic bustled over, the air around him practically buzzing with all the scans he was running on his commander. "You're not planning on going somewhere so soon, are you?" he accused as he flipped a small ratcheting tool out of one knuckle and started attacking an offered elbow.

"Nothing that would be cause for concern. Agent Banachek invited me along for a drive, and I accepted." The larger mech leaned down so Ratchet wouldn't have to stretch to reach his strained shoulder.

"Are you sure you should be going anywhere in your condition? And I don't mean this," the medic tsked when he tapped on a badly stressed component in Optimus's knee, momentarily switching to his small torch to smooth a roughened surface that had been grinding uncomfortably.

Prime's optics narrowed a little, "What condition? I was in possession of the Matrix since almost before you were sparked, Ratchet. It has sent me into spontaneous shutdown fewer times than you worked yourself offline during your service on the _Ark_ alone. I would hardly categorize it as a medical problem."

"Well perhaps someone should. And perhaps _you_ should give a little warning next time. You scared us half to death, Prime."

Optimus managed to retain his dignity as Ratchet had him stand on one leg to get at a forcibly over-rotated ankle joint. He redirected his gaze at Jazz, "I would have, if I had been given the same courtesy. But when I am already overtaxed and a very opinionated spark suddenly decides he needs my undivided attention, remaining conscious isn't always a feasible option. I apologize for causing you concern; there will not be a repeat of the event."

Jazz's face split in a sheepish smile, "Awww, Optimus! You know I didn't mean anythin' by it. I jus' felt bad about leadin' you all over, chasin' me around like that only to have me change my mind about leavin' with Prowl still angry with me."

"Yes, and you tried to rectify the situation by practically leaping out of the Matrix into _my _processor. I am eternally grateful." Prime managed to look stern until Ratchet practically yanked him down to optic-level, at which point he couldn't hide his amusement, "Ratchet, there is nothing wrong with my neck…"

"Yes, but with all of the looking down you'll be doing, I might as well get a head start on the problems you're about to develop," he muttered, unmoved.

Jazz chuckled despite the serious glare Prowl had fixed on him, "What can I say, Optimus, man? I'm a helpful bot, and it can't be that much of a drag if you're makin' jokes at my expense."

"True enough. I am _perfectly fine," _he insisted to the protesting medic as he experimentally flexed his re-tuned joints, "and I will be back tomorrow. Do behave yourselves while I am gone, and I will attempt to return from my meeting intact." Before he transformed and disappeared into the rest of the dam, he regarded Prowl and Jazz seriously. "It is an immeasurable joy to have you both here; I hope you realize that. Try to follow Ratchet's recommendations; losing either one of you would be a terrible loss to us all." And then he left.

After a moment, Ratchet could hide the evil gleam in his eyes no longer.

"Well, in that case I _recommend _that you both kindly shut your traps and enjoy a nice, long stint of bed rest..."

"Awww, man, this bites!" Jazz replied, but his grin was too mischievous to have been overly disappointed.

Prowl cast his narrow optics to the ceiling. Primus help him, the spy was up to something.

And all was right with the world.

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And the kicker is… when I wrote chapter 31 "Nothing Broken" and was halfway through 32 ("You scared the spark out…of…me." Etc.) I honest-to-Primus intended to leave Jazz dead.

And then I remembered that this is about fun. And we can't have maximum fun without the Funmaster himself, now can we?

Things are about to get a lot more fun. And not just because I give you Epileptor, the transforming light-show ball. For other reasons too.

Reviews are fun, right?


	36. The Field Trip

I'm doing laundry, and you know what that means… Chapter post!

Lots of nice reviews too, we've passed 200! Thanks guys, I love you too! When I finish the sidefic it will be a gift of some kind. I have no doubt there will be an occasion when the time comes.

**Dierdre:** (envisions Primus on a pogo stick[?!?!?!) That… what…?… Oh, there goes my diaphragm… Thanks for the hernia! …and the review.

**Kyme, **yet again you come to my rescue. I put the whole thing through the spellchecker every few… well, ok, I've done it twice. It's like trying to stuff a mech through a meat grinder. Thanks for watching my back. And I'll let you puzzle that one out on your own…

**teh: **"Don't believe in yourself; believe in me, who believes in you! Go beyond the impossible and kick reason to the curb! That is _Tengen_ _Toppa! _That is Gurren-Lagann! Mine is the drill that pierces the heavens!" …You'll understand in time. (MECHS!) I finished Wing0. Photos forthcoming. W00t.

I hope I'm not about to bore you to tears… but there's a reason. A good one. I promise.

The Field Trip

Tom Banachek had been part of Sector Seven longer than anyone still working there; was the first to enter those doors before _anyone_ not yet gone into retirement. When he strolled out to the loading doors in an old set of fatigues and carrying a backpack, no one noticed him any more than they did the pipes on the walls or the key card slots by the doors.

He was a fixture.

A fixture who, for nearly the past thirty years, had floated through every possible Above Top Secret area in the country as the head of the national Special Research Division. He had Clearance; try to keep up with the capitalization. So much clearance he was probably the only person alive who knew the whole story of Sector Seven and its contents.

When he had a conversation with a very polite semi tractor-trailer, who insisted it would be counter-productive for the moustached man to take a separate vehicle and left with it, the event barely raised eyebrows. His agents accepted it and moved on. It wasn't the strangest thing they'd seen by a long shot.

The five-hour, three-hundred mile drive was a pleasant one for both parties. They made small talk –and you'd be surprised at how much small talk you can make between a secret agent scientist and an alien robot- as Banachek gave the occasional direction and Optimus, well, rolled along up route 95. They spent all of two hours on the weather alone.

Although, that wasn't terribly surprising for either party. There was a lot to say about the weather, after all. The fact that Cybertron didn't have water in more than laboratory quantities was a point of no small interest to the human. Its almost non-existent atmosphere apparently left the sky full of stars all day long, even under the light of its closely-looming red giant, and its only bodies of liquid were small lakes of colorful acidic or metallic chemical compounds. It was an image the scientist wanted to see very much, and he could tell that the giant robot was just as intrigued by the tiny blue planet with its bright blue sky and its constant state of violent atmospheric turmoil.

When Banachek directed him up a small but paved mountain road to a log-cabin-style building at an elevation of over 11,000 feet, Optimus's interest was piqued. A sign marked it as a visitor center to the forest, but it appeared closed. After a moment of waiting an older man in a dark green National Forest Service uniform jogged out from a side dooe. He looked understandably surprised to see the huge truck idling there.

Banachek excused himself from the cab, ran around the truck, and firmly shook hands with the newcomer. "It's good to see you, Frank."

"Well Tom, you've sure outdone yourself this time. Can't believe you closed the whole park and drove up here in this monster of a thing just to visit your old friend." He was slightly shorter and broader than Agent Banachek, but even under his considerable grey beard Optimus could see a resemblance. "Not that I don't wish you'd come up here more often, maybe just to see your brother. You still up for Whitney in July?"

Tom gave him a rare, fleeting smile, "I don't know, Frank. Things have gotten hectic; I'll have to see what I can do. But I'm here on business today. I'm afraid I can't stay and chat."

This surprised the man Optimus surmised was one Frank Banachek, "Business? I'll be damned if you've ever brought business out into daylight before. What kind of business includes just you, a massive truck, and a bunch of trees in the middle of nowhere? This I've got to know."

"For the past forty years I've been studying extraterrestrials." He paused to gauge Frank's reaction.

"Well, I knew that one. You should know that for the past thirty-five the family's had a pool going on whether it was aliens or weapons. Looks like John and Cindy owe Jessie and me a cruise," his smile was warm and smug.

Tom managed to remain unruffled, "You realize this has to remain classified…"

"Of course. I'm a patient man. If you're telling me this now, you'll tell the rest of them eventually, and then we'll all go to Hawaii or somewhere to celebrate getting our brother back from the Man."

"This isn't a joke. The truck is an extraterrestrial, Frank." His tone was deadly serious.

His smile fading from everywhere but his eyes, the older man whistled and studied the vehicle with a newfound interest. "I can tell when you're kidding, when you bother to, you know. You're not joking now are you?" At a shake of Tom's head, Frank removed his hat and addressed the truck. "Well, what the hey? Welcome to Earth. I hope my brother here hasn't studied you into boredom yet."

Deciding to take the statement at face value, Optimus deemed it appropriate to respond. "Thank you, and not at all. Agent Banachek has been very accommodating."

"Well I'll be. You really are an alien truck, aren't you?" the forest ranger seemed more amused than surprised.

"Yes," Tom interjected, "This is Optimus Prime from the planet Cybertron, and Sir, this is Frank Banachek, my older brother and a ranger in the Inyo Forest Service." He allowed them to exchange 'How do you do's and 'Pleased to meet you's before continuing. "Unfortunately, the road won't take us any further than the visitor center."

"Ah, I see." With that Optimus transformed at length, once again allowed the luxury of time and space to get a good leisurely mechanical stretch.

Ranger Frank was awed. "Well that's just nifty. You're not a just an alien truck, you're a giant robot that looks like a truck. From space." Optimus inclined his head in the affirmative.

Tom put a hand on his brother's shoulder, "Sorry, Frank, but we want to hike the trail and make it back before dark. It will probably be slow going. Will you stay up here and make sure no one follows us?"

"Well, sure. I know I don't have to tell you to mind the trees with your large companion, but I'll tell you anyway. Mind the trees. And think about Whitney, will you? I've already made the jerky, so I'm going with or without you. And I know you wouldn't want your dear old brother to have to climb her and eat it alone, aliens or no aliens. Hell of a lot of jerky, Tom. See you on your way out." Smiling, he made his way back to the cabin to stand watch.

Optimus looked down at Banachek, "I believe he took that very well."

Tom nodded, a small twinkle of pride in his worry-lined eyes. "I wouldn't have told him if I didn't think he would. But this is going to become harder and harder to keep secret, and I didn't want to have this place overrun with S7 agents to bring you here."

"Yes, that would be unfortunate. This place is peaceful. If you are ready, Agent Banachek, we should not delay too long. I detect some dramatic changes in ground level in any given direction, which may take some time for me to navigate."

"Please, call me Tom. I know I told Frank that I was here on business, but it's not official business. I'm not an Agent today, just a person like any other. Please, follow me." And he led Prime, who took a small step for every five of Tom's, up a slope to the head of a broad trail. The accompanying sign rated the trail 'Easy' and appropriate for hikers and pets of any level of basic mobility. Though, the Forest Service probably didn't have Autobots in mind at the time…

Optimus's faceplates lifted in a smile as he carefully picked his way across the rocky ground after the human. "If I am to call you Tom, then please refer to me as 'Optimus.' I have been hoping for an occasion to speak more openly with a human of some experience. I believe that is the significance of being on a 'first name basis,' is it not?"

Tom turned to wait as the large Autobot ducked around a wide-flung tree branch across the path. "It is. I hope you don't mind coming all the way out here; you probably already learned the significance of this place via the Worldwide Web, correct?"

Finally managing to evade the coniferous offender, Optimus shuttered his optics and shook his head before taking his next great step. "No. Even if I were to do so, it would not tell me what importance you place on my coming here. I reserve that explanation for you, Tom."

The man moved along the trail with practiced ease, avoiding rock formations and tree roots as he spoke. "I appreciate that trust. Simmons had the right idea, but he took the wrong approach. You can force an introduction, you can even force civility, but you cannot force honesty when you're trying to hide everything yourself. That's why I wanted the chance to talk to you alone. Off of the record."

"I see. You wish to glean a better understanding of us than official relations might support. There is wisdom in that." The slope was getting steeper and, while the trees had thinned to a few twists of wood on an open slope, the grade had gotten steeper and the ground had become a jumble of loose stone. Optimus had to scan for the best footing and place his massive feet slowly to keep from sliding backwards.

"Not quite. The truth is, I'm breaking about every S7 protocol ever put to pen today. It doesn't matter if you choose to share anything or not; there are things that go beyond matters of national security." Hearing that the rhythmic crunches of rocks and dirt had stopped, Tom turned around to find Optimus considering the leaning form of a tree.

"Sam took Bumblebee to see a forest of exceedingly large conifers. He thought them very impressive, but I find that these are even more so. What is this specie of tree called?"

"These are all _Pinus_ _longaeva, _Bristlecone Pines."

"I see." He turned and continued his careful way up the slope to rest his optics on Banachek, who came up to just above his waist where he was standing. "Tom, I have been fighting this war for a very long time. I have seen and done things that I regret more times than I care to recall, and I personally ordered that the Allspark be launched into deep space. That it landed here is entirely my responsibility. Your species was unprepared for that kind of discovery, and I am not so naïve as to believe that its power not explored in undesirable ways. I am only too happy to help clear the air between us, if that is your intention."

"I am glad to hear that." He gestured for his companion to follow as he continued up the slope. "The first time the Cube came into contact with something complex enough to transform was when the dam was already under construction, in 1932. A battery-powered wristwatch was accidentally dropped on it by a member of the construction crew. It killed six people before the workers managed to crush it with a steel pipe. Since then, there have been numerous experiments involving the Cube's mysterious power. In order to study its ability to animate machines and generate seemingly unlimited mass and energy, two-hundred and seventy-one documented experiments were conducted involving the creation of such animated machines. Because of their dangerous nature, all were terminated upon completion of their respective experiments, in addition to the various accidents and undocumented demonstrations in the seventy-two years of S7's operation."

Banachek couldn't see Optimus's solemn expression, but he could hear it in his voice. "I expected as much. Though they were unlike us, it is no less unfortunate. All beings of every manner of life deserve a meaningful existence. However, I cannot find it in myself to hold such acts against your race. You lost as many defending the Allspark as you killed to study it, and together we were able to defeat the Decepticons. It is something that I can forgive, if not forget; but I take it that you did not bring me on this hike to confess something so obvious as this."

"Unfortunately not. But this is what I wanted to show you."

The pair crested the gentle rise of the trail and were treated to an amazing vista of bright Californian mountains that the giant robot paused to appreciate for a moment before continuing down after Banachek. The man paused, not before the extravagant view, but at the foot of a gnarled twist of wood clutching the rocky ground for dear life. Half of the tree was a lifeless white husk, while the other stubbornly thrust out spikes of dark green bristles.

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This is one of the several scenes upon which this entire story is founded. I just discovered that, after five pages, I only have the setup, so it'll be in two parts. Considering that it took me 10 chapters to get out of the first scene and 33 before Jazz's situation was resolved, I can't bring myself to be too unsatisfied.

Boring? I hope not, but maybe. I accept that possibility and will counter it accordingly in the chapters to come. Just sit tight. Think of it as something deceptively mundane that comes before something utterly crazy. Like waiting for toast to pop up.

Timestop is a transforming wristwatch. He's dead now, but he lives on in our hearts.

Oh, and I'm going to the great land of Maine this weekend to see TSO and visit the best friend. So if I don't post again before next week… I'm not dead. I'm dying of hug-induced asphyxiation.

Alright, you can Go. Meaning the button. That says 'Go.' I kill myself sometimes…


	37. The Oldest Testament

**ATTENTION DUELISTS!**

No… maybe not… Anyway, two announcements. I've written you folks 102 pages of unadulterated, note-free story! Go me! That's a hell of a lot…

And I've finished building Wing 0 and posting pictures, so check them out via the link in my profile. He chills hardcore with Plushimus Prime!

I enjoy this scene immensely.

The Oldest Testaments

Slowly Optimus Prime approached the tree, leaning to examine it more closely. Seeing the giant robot towering over the gnarled pine, gently reaching out to lay a silver hand on its trunk, Banachek knew he'd made the right decision. It wasn't something he could articulate, but when- was it really less than a week ago?- the Autobot Commander had spoken of his home planet, he had been reminded of this very tree.

"Optimus, I would like you to meet Methuselah, the oldest singular living organism on this planet."

The robot straightened to regard the tree with visible respect, "Methuselah. A Biblical figure with an improbably long life-span. _Pinus_ _longaeva, _long-lived pine. This is the oldest life on Earth, but younger than every single spark of Cybertron by a factor of ten. Yet its tenacity is to be admired on a planet of such fragile, transient life."

Tom crossed his arms and looked appreciatively up at the pair of ancients. "Methuselah has been here for four-thousand, eight-hundred and forty years. When it sprouted we were still building the Great Pyramids. The tree was named after a man who, as you say, lived an improbably long time. He died in the year of an equally improbable flood; some think his death was the harbinger of the cataclysm. Whatever the circumstances, the lesson is the same: for something so ancient to die is a great tragedy. There was an even older pine here called Prometheus, but it was cut down in 1964 to find out how old it was. It seems that, in order to learn, humans must also destroy. I want to change that. That's why I went into research in the first place, though I haven't always been successful." He let his backpack down on the rocks and pulled out what looked like a PDA wired and duct taped to a satellite phone, a pair of speakers, and a battery pack, turning it over in his hands.

"An admirable sentiment."

Banachek's moustache quirked ironically, "Sentiment isn't enough, but it helps. You should know that we're keeping the last known creation of the Cube and the tail of the mechanical scorpion that attacked us in cold storage. The latter we would like to test, but the former is too dangerous for us to keep and is slotted for destruction when things settle down."

Optimus sighed, "Scorponok's parts are of little consequence to us. I would like a chance to save the other, however. Secretary Keller has asked us to help protect your computer network; Jazz will discover it or its records while performing that task, if that would avoid implicating you."

"It would." He turned on his odd little contraption, waiting a considerable while for all of the parts to come on. "That isn't all, and this is the main reason I wanted to speak with you. The government has received word that Russia has been picking up a signal we think is in your language. It's simple and has been repeating sporadically for seventeen days. I can't get you that signal, but there have been others. Subscribers to Russian satellite television have been reporting an inexplicable English commentary inserted into the audio portion of their programs, simultaneously and on multiple channels in the same voices. I've had Glen Whitman working around the clock to isolate the extraneous material out of the transmissions, stream it to me over the internet, and get me a frequency to the position of the Russian television satellite via this phone. We can't interfere with the satellite or Russian operations ourselves; they already think we're spying on them. It's a delicate situation. But if the signal were to stop on its own…" he shrugged as he started dialing on the keypad.

"No one would be the wiser. I understand; if this is the doing of Autobots, I will put an end to it."

"Good." He entered some commands into the PDA and hit the dial button on the phone, and the speakers crackled to life. The signal was staticky, but passable.

"- aw, man! She totally slapped him! And what the hell is that thing?"

"Fragged if I know. Looks like some kind of double-ended missile. Why in the Pit would they all keep jumping on it?"

"Dude, come on. They're obviously trying to keep their enemies from getting their hands on it. Better to make it explode than risk letting them fu-"

"**Attention Autobots. **This is Optimus Prime. You will cease transmitting your distress signal and meaningless comments on unauthorized channels immediately. You will proceed to reply using this frequency. And, Sideswipe, you _will _watch your language."

The robot in question let out something like a surprised mechanical squeak, but quickly recovered. "Oh man, you scared the sh- I mean, the _spark _out of me, Big Bot! Took ya long enough, we've been up here _forever _with no one but our buddy Eutelsat W4 here spitting out soap operas and sports and you _didn't even send us Russian!"_

"Stop whining, bit-brain. I told you we were over the wrong hemisphere."

"That is enough, both of you. _All Autobots, engage comm. link now. _Can you correct your positions for landfall at the appropriate coordinates in the _correct _hemisphere?" Optimus crouched low to speak more directly into the boxy little phone.

"No way! We got bored waiting for Prowl, and the _Deathstar_ went by, so we went and totally-"

"Oh, slag; not them."

Thank you for that Public Service Announcement, Ironhide. It is unclear whether or not he cut the comm. link after this comment, or was simply despairingly silent from thence on.

"What Sideswipe is trying to say is that half of his sorry aft got blasted to smithereens in the explosion. All of his correctional thrusters are out and we're not splitting up, so we're stuck at this latitude. Deal with it."

"Hey, I'm not the one who's so studded with shrapnel he can barely hold pod form, you-"

Prowl's voice spoke of a dark glower even over the poor signal, "So when I ordered you to proceed directly to Earth, you decided to lead a solo raid on a Decepticon battle cruiser and get yourselves slagged. Is that what you're trying to say?"

"Look Sides, someone finally decided to show up."

"Ummm… no? There were _two_ of us, man."

If excessive volume and expression could carry pure intent out through radio waves, both twins would have large, wrench-shaped dents right about now. "I AM GOING TO DISASSEMBLE BOTH OF YOU AND REBUILD YOUR INSUFFERABLE AFTS AS WASTE DISPOSAL UNITS! You couldn't, for once in your miserable existences, show up _intact?_ Just once? I don't have the time or supplies to repair that kind of damage!"

"Hey, Sunny, it's Doc Hatchet! You wouldn't _believe _how lame it was to have to keep ourselves in one piece without you, Ratch. We missed you!"

"Well you can bet that I most certainly did _not _miss you or your shenanigans! I have patients enough already without becoming your personal mechanic again."

"Don't be that way, Doc. We brought you _(((((presents)))))!" _

Perhaps only once, or perhaps a few times in an author's short life, they come across an expression in dialogue that transcends normal punctuation and literary convention. Sideswipe's remark included a noun so gleefully emphasized and inflected with vibrato that the taunt would require a bizarre set of italicized parentheses to fully convey its meaning. Apologies would necessarily be offered to the lingually pure.

While the medic sulkily tried to come up with a retort, Prime cut in. "You mean to say that you brought supplies with you?"

"That's what he said. We have three blocks ready to drop. The one from the _Deathstar _is damaged, but can still correct its orbit." Sunstreaker made the phone crackle with a string of static and beeps.

Optimus let out a short burst of answering Cybertronian before giving his orders, "Send them to those coordinates; the area has been secured as a landing site. Tom, they can slow their descent to land on this continent as Earth rotates, but only at approximately the forty-seventh northern degree of latitude. Do you have any recommendations?"

"Send them to central Montana after dark, preferably in an unpopulated eastern region. When you've got their projected coordinates, relay them to Ms. Madsen and we'll cordon off the area. It will be harder to get there, but they'll be less likely to be seen."

"Is that a human?"

"Hi, fleshy!"

More incomprehensible robot-speak. "For the time being we will work in pairs. Bumblebee and Ratchet, see to the cargo blocks. Jazz and Prowl, do as Ratchet tells you. Ironhide, rendezvous with me. They land in fourteen hours. Autobots, roll out." With that he cut the comm. link and went back to staring thoughtfully at the tree before them.

"It will take us almost fourteen hours just to get there. Shouldn't we get moving?" Tom was disassembling his gadget into its component parts and zipping them in his backpack, which he slung over his shoulder.

"In a moment," Optimus let his hands fall from their customary place on his hip armor. Amused by the agent's puzzled expression, he let out something between a chuckle and a sigh. "Thank you for everything you have done. Those two have been missed, but I would just like to enjoy the peace of this place a little longer. When Sideswipe and Sunstreaker land there will likely be none to be had for a long while."

The quiet moments ticked by, and a breeze swept the mountainside. The ancient tree's branches were so stiff not even the smallest, liveliest of them wavered, as if it were frozen in time.

Tilting his head and nodding, as if in some kind of agreement, the towering robot finally moved. "We should go now, but I am glad you brought me here. I hope I have the good fortune of an opportunity to visit again someday." And the pair headed down the other end of the trail.

The white twist remained clutching the rocky ground as it had for 4,840 years before. But if trees could speak, Methuselah would have quite a story to tell. It's not every day a tree, even a very old one, is introduced to a giant robot from space.

And it is not every day the eldest of one planet meets the eldest of another.

Meanwhile… 

Sam was having a fanboy attack in Bumblebee's front seat inside the oh-so-secret facility. "_Bee!_ There's a real spaceship named the _Death Star???" _

"Well, there was… but clearly not anymore…"

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That was… disgustingly educational. I had to add some intellectual value to it before descending into the hellions of binary chaos.

A note on Methuselah: There are plants that have been generating biomass longer, scrubby little things mostly, but the old tissue dies as it creeps along the ground so it's hard to isolate what constitutes the 'oldest' or even 'individual organism.' Thus I chucked out some qualifiers and it's all ok. There's a vague rumor that one of those scientist-types found a 'new' oldest tree, but no name or info is out there. If it is true it would probably be the same type of tree also in the Forest of Ancients, in which all trees are over 4000 years old. And while Banachek is in all kinds of secret know, the specific tree that is Methuselah has been kept secret from the public to prevent vandalism, but it _is_ somewhere along the trail.

Alrighty, I'm off to Maine. But not with Arvee, the transforming RV. He's got far too many amenities for a lowly college kid.


	38. The Squirrel Chapter

Do I really need the disclaimer for this chapter? Well, I don't own the rights to Transformers…

But squirrels are public domain.

Token Squirrel Chapter

In a forest north of Winnet, Montana, a small being contemplated its existence. Then, deciding there was only so much to contemplate, it went back to chewing on the acorn in its paws.

Before it was pounced on by a hissing ball of red fury.

The two miniature titans spat and rolled, fighting over the morsel. Their feud was brutal and their hatred deep. For ages the grey and red squirrels had warred over the forests of the world, never finding resolution. The greys were just too big and resilient to overcome in a fight, and the reds were too feisty and quick to keep up with in a chase.

Thus, a stalemate.

Now, neither squirrel's eyes were made for stargazing. As far as the fuzzy, murderous early-risers were concerned, there was only one light in the night sky. So what the poplar were those things?

When the two bright fireballs impacted, only one fleeting impression crossed each rodent's grape-sized mind.

_Damn huge nuts._

Hearing approaching crashes through their woodland home and war-zone, the combatants forgot their philosophical differences and bounded away at deer-speed. Neither had any intention of finding out what kind of giant squirrel could eat a nut that big.

Hopefully it wouldn't stick around to take sides.

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I thought this would be funnier if post as a separate chapter. Just hit the next button if you want to pretend it didn't happen.


	39. The Hooligan and the Hedgehog

TSO was awesome. LAZAH-BEEMS YO! Maine didn't do anything for my poor dying car though…

I don't own Transformers.

The Hooligan and the Hedgehog

Ironhide hated trees. Optimus, with his cursed long shanks, might be able to get around them, but it was fragging hard for a stocky bot like himself to negotiate the density of coniferous obstacles.

True to form, the pair of impacts came several minutes late. Those two needed to have punctuality beaten into them, it seemed.

He also hated rodents. One raced by as he was figuring out how to duck under or climb over a leaning tree, and he had to stifle an urge to incinerate the beast. Luckily it had the good sense to avoid him; there wasn't much he wouldn't do to avoid having a dirty nest built in his air filter.

Again.

It was beginning to dawn on him that he even hated leaving the Lennoxes behind. Though it would hardly be easy to defend them with his limited mobility, he didn't like the idea that they were in the questionably-intentioned care of Bumblebee's former captors. Even if one of Will's comrades was scheduled to return there today and if there would be two to four Autobots at the facility anyway.

Primus, he was getting paranoid.

The old warrior huffed in annoyance when he found Optimus already standing majestically in an impact scar when he dragged himself out of the woods looking like he'd lost a fight with a Christmas tree. In what he considered good grace, he stomped to his leader's side and waited.

It took longer than it should have, but after a few minutes the smoldering metal lump began to shift and rearrange. When it finished, Ironhide was less than impressed.

The protoform was charred black from head to toe. That is to say, both his head and feet were intact and readily identifiable. Everything in between, however… well, his arms might still be in there somewhere. The silver form, thrashing as it was trying to get up, displayed a rather odd case of a misshapen torso.

Optimus Prime and Ironhide were speechless.

The object of their attention… not so much.

"Hey there, Big Bot! And old Bolt-Bucket too! Man, am I glad to see-"

"_SIDESWIPE???"_

"OVER HERE, SLAG-FOR-BRAINS!" The oddly cheerful cripple answered, finally managing to flip himself onto his knees. Prime was there in one stride to put a stabilizing grasp on his shoulder as he struggled to his feet.

"Could they make any more noise?" the weapons specialist grumbled to no one. Coming from him it was a major statement on how many zip codes had been roused from bed.

A great ruckus of crashing and snapping barreled towards them through the trees.

"For the love of the Matrix. Those Pit-spawn can _always _make more noise, can't they…" he grouched as he moved to help Optimus hold his charge upright as the other twin fought his way free of the resilient vegetation…

…But he ended up with a fist full of a punch from said twin when he approached said cripple at a high-speed stumble.

"You little glitch! If you _ever, _and I mean from now until the entire universe goes to the Pit, do _anything _that suicidal again, I swear I'll dismember you myself and-"

Optimus stirred, "Sunstreaker, while I am sure you have some creative and brutally… _effective_ ideas of how to keep Sideswipe out of trouble, this is neither the time nor the place. You should both see Ratchet as soon as possible." Indeed, when he looked Sunstreaker up and down, Ironhide saw more shards of black metal sticking out of him than his actual components. Tiny streams of energon trickled from the larger, deeper-set protrusions. Individually the losses were insignificant, but there were so many… "Can you walk? The road is not far from here." Prime too had assessed the damage and sounded concerned.

Sunstreaker was still glaring at his sheepish twin, "I'm fine. Let's move." He followed Optimus and Sideswipe with Ironhide keeping a constant watch on him, ready to grab him if he stumbled. Neither of his own optics ever left his brother.

It took a long time to get the injured parties to the road. Banachek, who still looked alert after twenty-four hours without rest, waited there with a group of the men that had been called in to Hoover Dam. Simmons was there giving instructions for how to cover up the landing site and how to handle the detours they had set up once the NBEs left the area. He had clearly done this before.

As they emerged from the tree-line, Sideswipe suddenly froze. "I can't go out there!" He frantically tried to escape Optimus's firm grasp.

Concerned, the taller Autobot regarded him seriously. "Why not? Is something wrong?"

"Of course there's something wrong! I'm _naked!"_ This, of course, drew more attention to his armor-less silver form than there had been previously.

"Oh for frag's sake, stop whining. You can scan something when Ratchet's chopped you up and put you back together again. Until then, just mute it." Sunstreaker's eyes, still locked on the other injured protoform, were pitiless. Sideswipe just grinned.

Ironhide knew someone picking a fight when he saw one, having been that mech many times himself, and he wasn't having any of it. "I don't know what's jamming your servos, but I don't want to hear it. Sunstreaker, get in that trailer while we load Sideswipe into this one. Ratchet will chop you both up if you start a fight injured." He turned to help Prime lift the gymnophobic Autobot into the wheeled metal box.

"No."

"Pardon?" Prime turned and raised a brow-plate at the silver and black porcupine. "I am afraid this is not up for debate, Sunstreaker."

Bright, cold optics met his commander's stubbornly. "Sides is hurt. We're not separating."

"You are also injured, and you will not possibly fit in one trailer. I will be pulling both of them; you will not be separated by more than a few feet."

All heads turned when a series of odd noises spewed from Sideswipe in his transport. "Dude, it echoes in here!" ricocheting out of the metal box put most everyone at ease.

"Fine. _That _one goes in front. Don't let anything happen to him." And on that note he walked stiffly around the second trailer and climbed up. The shrapnel could be heard screeching along the inside as he pulled himself in.

Ironhide veritably slammed himself onto the road as he transformed, revving his engine angrily and following to the back of the double-trailer to take up the rear. "Let's go, Prime. Ratchet needs to beat some better spirits –and manners- back into these two."

"Agreed." Optimus was extra careful not to jostle Sideswipe's new home as he transformed and hitched onto it. He backed up and let the military men attach the second trailer and popped his door to admit Banachek.

"Those two…" the man started, "They seem terribly young. Is it safe to move them like this when they're injured?"

"The twins may act like petulant younglings, but they are older than Bumblebee by a considerable margin and are two of our fiercest warriors. Unfortunately, they have developed higher tolerances for pain than for sympathy. The best we can do is get them to Ratchet quickly."

The agent checked the rearview pensively. "I see. Can I ask how why you refer to them as 'twins?'"

Optimus settled into a comfortable gear on the empty highway, keeping a careful watch on his precious freight. "It is a rare and fascinating phenomenon for which humans have no adequate verbal equivalent. It occurs when a spark, once formed, spontaneously duplicates itself before being confined to a body. The cause of such occurrences is not known."

His moustache quirked. "I suppose twins are a surprise for everyone then, Autobot or human."

"Indeed. Usually it would not be an issue; the second spark would simply be transferred to the next protoform. But, as one of these two was to be the last of that cycle's sparklings, there was quite a fuss to prepare a new one to accommodate the other without losing his spark. I suppose they have been troublesome from their very beginnings."

"So who is older?"

"You mean who was the first to receive a body?" Somehow Optimus managed to sound amused and grave at the same time. "Not even they know. That is a secret I intend to take with me to the very Matrix."

"Why would you have to keep it from them?"

"Because otherwise no one would ever hear the end of it."

And thus his was a sacred duty indeed.

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What in the Pit happened to them, I wonder? I'm sure we'll get all the juicy details. And I'm equally sure Ratchet will create more juicy details before he's through with them.

Masseuchron is the transforming massage chair. Damn, my back hurts from driving too much…

So… review! And watch Gurren-Lagann if you want badass mech action. If you don't want badass mech action… wait… you did watch Transformers, didn't you?


	40. Cornucopia of Swearwords

Dudes, I've been wicked sick. I think I caught some terrible plague in Maine. I'm glad you guys liked the squirrels; around here, the little red ones kick the grey ones' asses, but there are too few to stage an all-out assault.

40 CHAPTER ATTACK! W00t. 40 chapters. Yeah.

Thanks to my reviewers for… reviewing, of course!

I don't own Transformers.

Cornucopia of Swearwords

Upon reflection it seemed very fortunate that the roads were fairly empty in the early morning. This was for the simple reason that it took Optimus, Ironhide, and Sunstreaker _hours _to impress on Sideswipe the need to shut up and lay still. On that warm summer morning anyone with a cracked window would have heard the loud voice issuing from the first trailer of the land-train and seen it rocking back and forth from time to time.

For those in the convoy, the whining was nigh unbearable.

"Awww, c'mon, Big Bot, pleeeeeeeease? We've been floating in pod form with nothing but Russian TV and our own injuries to amuse us for _weeks! _I wanna go to Vegas, baby!"

"No. You will have the chance to look around once you've been fixed and scanned an alt mode. Right now our first priority is seeing you safely to Ratchet's care."

"That's so _lame! _And you know he won't let us do anything fun until he's through yelling at us and fixing us and yelling at us and turning us into waste disposal units and yelling at us and rebuilding us and yelling at us and making us his slaves… oh and _yelling _at us-"

"Primus! Will someone rip out his vocal processor already? He's driving me even more insane than he used to." Ironhide sounded about ready to transform and crush the rest of the talkative cripple, who resumed bumping about in the trailer, "Sunstreaker, what in the Matrix-damned, slag-spewing smelter of the _Pit _ is wrong with him?!"

"Ironhide… _language…_" but Optimus sounded defeated by the stunning combination of vulgarities.

"Dude, a creative display scoring 10.0s across the board from Old Bolt-Bucket! Looks like he'll take home the gold, Scott!" Sideswipe must have been watching skating competitions…

Sunstreaker just sounded irritated, "His system went into transformation lockout and the fritzing idiot overrode his emergency stasis lock, but he wouldn't stop screaming. I had to cross the wires in his sensor relays to get him functional enough to travel. He's delirious."

"Ratchet is going to dismantle you both. I hope you don't mind if I watch."

"Ironhide, that was uncalled-for. I do not like it any more than you do, but at least Sideswipe is not in pain."

"I don't thi-"

"PLEEEEEEEEEASE? Just a quick drive-by? I wanna see how fleshies gamble!"

Banachek checked the mirrors to make sure there was no one around to notice the bouncing trailer. What could the crushed robot be doing in there? "I understand your position, Optimus, but we would only lose a few minutes by taking I-15 further south and approaching the dam from the west. It would take us through the city, and if it would calm Sideswipe down..."

"Point taken. We will take the short detour-"

"WOOHOO! VIVA LAS VEGAS BABY!"

"-on the conditions that you both stop yelling and lay still for the rest of the trip."

The trailer stopped shaking and fell silent. –For a moment. "Dude, that's such a bummer. A bot's gotta live a little! And I get this weird tingly feeling when I lay on my shoulder like that… at least I think that's my shoulder… why the frag would my shoulder be that low? Maybe that's my wrist… aw, I don't know! Anyway, I'm just tryin' to get comfy back here. No need to poop the party, boss-man. Seriously."

"While I sympathize, the condition stands. Stop moving or I am taking you directly to Ratchet."

The ride was considerably more peaceful after that. At least until the highway took them through Vegas.

"Dude! This is _awesome!_ Lookit all of them! Could you pop the hatch, Big Bot? I wanna see!"

"I suppose it _is _entertaining." Even Sunstreaker's mood seemed to have improved.

"Absolutely not. You will both have to wait until your damage has been repaired."

Suddenly, both trailers experienced violent convulsions. Horns across the highway blared as Optimus swerved to keep them from rolling over.

"Aaaaaaaaaaagh! That feels _weird!"_

"Frag it all," hissed Sunstreaker, "The next time you have a bright idea like that, you can shove it in your-"

"What _are _you two doing?!" The Autobot leader sounded well on his way to being miffed.

"…Just getting comfy?"

"…Nothing."

"That fragging didn't look like nothing. I hope the doc really _does _dismember you this time; you nearly made Optimus run me off the road!"

"Sorry, old Rustypelt! We forgot you weren't as spry-"

"Enough," the semi cab rumbled. "Ratchet and I will deal with you when we arrive. Until then you two had better behave yourselves."

Sideswipe had only one cheerful thing to say for the rest of the trip.

"We are _so _toast!"

"Shut up, slag-head."

After the considerable ordeal of backing the trailers up the access road they found Ratchet waiting in the hidden safety of the tunnel to receive his patients. Driving around to help him extract the troublesome pair, Optimus transformed and greeted the unhappy-looking medic.

"How did the cargo retrieval go?"

"The little glitches did a good job of stealing supplies from the Decepticons. But the two blocks from Cybertron…" Ratchet shook his head. "You'll see."

Puzzled by the gloomy response, Optimus kept his peace and lifted the door of the rear trailer. And was stunned speechless by what he saw.

At which point Ratchet dragged the spiky twin from its confines and unleashed a gasp of horror.

And then ran to fling open the second trailer, pulling the second troublemaker from it.

"Hey, Hatch-" Sideswipe was cut off by a wordless scream of rage.

"AAAAAAAAAAARGH! YOU FRAGGING MORONS! YOUR AFTS ARE GOING TO BE WEEBLES WHEN I GET THROUGH WITH THEM!!!"

Sunstreaker tried to look cool stretched out on the concrete, "It's nothing to get all fragged out about…"

Sideswipe wobbled into a sitting position, grinning like a buffoon, "Surprise! We missed you too Ratch! …What's a weeble?"

The over-worked medic sagged in despair. "You two are going to be the death of me someday…" His right hand rearranged itself into something resembling a pair of jointed pliers, which he snapped shut like a claw, his optics flashing evilly,"_If_ _I don't kill you first!" _He hauled Sunstreaker unceremoniously over one shoulder and stalked noisily into the dam, cursing rather impressively himself. Optimus was silent as he followed with a silly-looking Sideswipe.

Let the games begin.

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Oh the love. Things will calm down eventually… I hope. Nobody knows how to injure themselves like those two. I wonder what pissed Ratchet off so much when he saw them?

Starchbox is a Cybertronian bread-maker of doom! Set him before you go to bed, and in the morning enjoy hot, fresh bread of DOOM!

As if I'm not posting two… Heh… heh… oh.


	41. A Strategic Retreat

Did you like that festive chapter title for 40? I get a kick out of it. What to call this one…

I don't own Transformers.

No, that's not the title. This is:

A Strategic Retreat

Prowl was startled out of the light recharge he had been enjoying without the presence of the fussy medic when he was unceremoniously kicked in the rear tire by said medic.

"Get out of my way! These fraggers need attention."

Prowl wisely bit back the retort that he was, in fact, completely out of the way.

"You slagging idiots just _had _to scan, didn't you? You couldn't have waited until I was through, oh no. You went and did whatever you wanted with no regard to your health. As usual. And now lucky _Ratchet _gets to pick the shrapnel out from _under _your shiny new armor and dig through this twisted red _slag_ you call a torso for your arms! I guess this is his lucky day!"

It was bad when he started talking in the third person.

The sound of shredding metal and startled protests followed Prowl down the tunnel as he rolled away as quietly as he could. Jazz had apparently already made his escape, and when a chunk of yellow metal bounced off his bumper he cursed the sneaky saboteur for leaving him behind.

He paused by the end of the tunnel; he technically wasn't allowed outside of the 'medbay' yet. Deciding he would rather face the medic later for insubordination than now for being present during the twins' repairs, he chose to risk it.

And as he rolled out into the larger room, a human bounced off his hood onto its posterior.

"Ohmygod! Holy _shit!"_ The human exclaimed as it scrambled backwards in fear.

Puzzling.

"I apologize; I was preoccupied. Are you injured?"

The adolescent's face wrinkled as it stood up and brushed itself off. "Uh… no? Are you…?"

Prowl was suddenly very self-conscious and wary as the human darted around behind him, "Is there a problem?" He inquired, trying to keep the mild offense out of his tone.

"Phew," his inspector reappeared in front of him as he failed to come up with a definition for that word, "Oh, no. I mean, I thought you were Barricade for a second; scared the crap out of me. But you're clearly not, so no, there's no problem. You're Prowl, right? Or are you one of those twins that just got here?"

The car's engine rumbled, "Prowl. And why would you think _I_ was _Barricade?" _His distaste was apparent.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, it's not _you, _per se. But you, uh, look alike, kinda. Your car forms, I mean." The human seemed nervous.

_That _was irritating. "I chose the same alternative mode as that _Decepticon?"_ In that case, he should re-scan, but he rather liked this model…

"No, no you didn't. Not exactly, anyway. You're both police cruisers, so your paint jobs are similar. A first-glance kind of resemblance, you know? But he's a Mustang, and you're a Charger, which are totally not even close. Very classy, by the way. In a… dignified older-person, law-enforcement kind of way. Plus his decals are so not kosher. 'To punish and enslave' and all that bad-guy business."

"So you mistook me for him based on an observation made in haste."

"Uh, basically… yeah." The human's body language reminded him of an embarrassed Bumblebee, rubbing at the filaments protruding from his head.

"I suppose that is acceptable. Who are you?"

"I'm Sam. Sam Witwicky. I guess we didn't have a chance to meet, huh?"

"No. I have been rather indisposed. You are Bumblebee's charge, are you not?"

"Yeah, that's me."

"Jazz spoke of you. Why were you coming this way?"

"I thought I'd see if Ratchet needed anything. I'm not as much help as Mikaela, but she's off showering somewhere and she'd never forgive me if I didn't tell her everything that's going on…"

"Take my advice, human; stay out of there."

"Oh…" A loud _SCREECH! _And a round of yelling echoing out of the tunnel emphasized his point, "Huh. Sounds good to me, better just find someplace to hide until it's over, right?"

"Indeed." The boy was beginning to understand, it seemed.

"Is there anything I can help you with? I'm pretty much in the way wherever I go right now; I finally escaped running errands for Maggie and Bumblebee. I never should have introduced those two, they're _crazy_. I haven't seen you out here much though. Have you had a tour yet?"

"No. I suppose learning the layout of this facility would be a worthy use of time, though I was ordered not to move around…" A shriek from behind him ("_Nooo!_ _Get away from me, you monster!" "Get back here, cretin! It won't hurt _that _much!") _made up his mind. "Lead on." He transformed and gestured for the human to precede him.

"Cool. Well, you've already seen Ratchet's domain. This giant room is where the Allspark was kept. Now it's more of a lobby; there's the Starbucks, that up there is a conference room- oh! That's the Secretary of Homeland Security waving at us. You'll probably meet her at some point. They're thinking of painting traffic lines on the floor so, you know, no one gets stepped on…"

Prowl was probably Hoover Dam's first tourist to come all the way from Cybertron.

8888888888(praise the mighty eights)888888888888

I almost feel pity for them. Almost.

Hum, Thanksgiving vacation is coming up, isn't it? How about Tryptophear, the terrifying robotic turkey-carver! Those things scare me…

I'll probably lose my nerve and update again before then, but if I don't…

Happy Thanksgiving! (NO SCHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!)


	42. An Object that Speaks More Softly

Welcome, new readers!

I actually looked down the TF fanfic list the other day looking for new stuff and my thoughts went something like this: "_Okay…hm, cool… Mary Sue …. looks fun… Mary Sue… intriguing… OH DEAR GOD!… warm-fuzzies… generic and stuffy… wait… that one was mine! O-O Noez!" _So I discovered that my summary did nothing to describe my style or the story and needed a facelift. I'm glad I finally managed to entice you into my fictional clutches. (Muahahaha?)

**Turtle Dreamer: **Wasn't that the first one Dr. Briefs built him to go to Namek? Giant spherical thing? I _love _DBZ!

**teh: **Nasty little details? I sure hope so. I'd hate to get 100 chapters into this and discover some monstrous plot hole… I have _nightmares _about that sort of thing (usually that I accidentally uploaded my goldfish instead of a chapter at one point, but hey, it was scary at the time). Thanks for the vote of confidence. Primus knows I need it…

**AzureOcelot: **Welcome, but you should probably get that checked out… (Yells) Hey Ratchet, you got a patient! Get out the saw! (snicker) Thanks for reviewing.

**Tomorrow4eva: **Lol, because I've never even _seen_ a Lambourghini outside of Vegas or Italy. They don't exactly fall out of the sky just anywhere…(yes bad pun) Though I did see a Ferrari a few weeks ago. What a red convertible Ferrari was doing in Burlington, VT, I don't know. Now that _must _be alien behavior…

On with the show. The show that I don't own. I.e. I don't own Transformers.

Objects Speak More Softly than Goodbyes

As Optimus Prime beat his retreat from having dropped Sideswipe off with the Chief Medical Officer, he was waylaid by one coffee-carrying, jet-lagged Agent Simmons. "Hey there, big guy. We couldn't fit your cargo blocks through the tunnel, so we put partitions up around them in front of the access doors on the east side of the river. NBE Ratchet said you'd want to see them right away." He took a sip of his large, hot beverage.

The towering Autobot altered his route to join with that of the briskly walking human, audios twisting in irritation, "His name is Ratchet. You would do well to use it; he is not often in a forgiving mood."

Simmons turned around, walking backwards for a few paces and holding up his hands –well, a hand and a coffee- in surrender. "Alright, okay, I get it. I'll drop the 'NBE' thing. But you should know, it seems awfully familiar to be calling someone by their first name without any kind of title. I've been meaning to ask you, Mr. Prime, if any of your compadres here have surnames like you do. We're trying to come up with formal designations for you guys sooner rather than later. You understand."

"_Mr. _Prime?" Optimus stopped and squinted down at the little man, "'Prime' is not a surname. It would be inappropriate to apply that nomenclatural device, and if you wish to be formal with an Autobot, their full name will suffice."

"I'm sure it's not such a bad equivalent-"

"As you wish, Reverend Simmons." He straightened and continued their walk toward the other exit.

"Hey, wait!" Simmons rushed to catch up, "I'm not a reverend!"

"And I, _Agent _Simmons, am not a 'Mister.'" Optimus's faceplates quirked in what might have been a controlled smirk.

Offering a lopsided grin, Simmons relented, "Okay, if that's the way you want it; I get it. You're Optimus Prime, Ratchet is Ratchet, and to hell with English grammatical conventions. But I'm going to have to explain the 'Prime' thing a few million times to counter the confusion, so if you wouldn't mind explaining it to _me…"_ he shrugged.

"There is little to be explained; I have one name, not two. Holders of the Matrix have come to change their name and incorporate 'Prime' into it when they accept it, after the 'First' to receive it, _Prima." _He ducked to enter the tunnel to the outside.

"So its some kind of historical thing…but it's not your rank. Right?"

"No. It is half of my name, and only half. Most of our names translate into compounds anyway, due to the complexity of our language compared to yours. Prototypes or repeat models also often use numerical qualifiers to prevent confusion, though that is an old practice and not one you are likely to encounter."

"Fair enough. You'll have to tell me about your history sometime." The passage widened out into an area entirely surrounded by a bright blue tent-like structure. Lined up along the concrete road were three large cubes, each twice as tall as a shipping container. The first was a scorched and pitted but plain dark grey, with a few inscriptions and indentations along the edges. Simmons pointed to them, "We tried translating those, but no luck." He sadly tossed his empty cup in a waste receptacle as he passed it.

Optimus scanned the cube up and down and tilted his head, "They are safety warnings regarding the transportation of the block. If it will not fit through the tunnel, we will simply have to remove its contents and move them individually. The block is damaged and of little consequence; I will break it down when it is empty."

"We couldn't figure out how to open it either."

Optimus bent and fit his hand into a shallow square indent on the side of the cube. It flashed with blue energy and hummed quietly. "It is just as well that you did not. It contains medical supplies, and energon, that would be harmful to humans."

"Do I detect the legendary Stash?"

They looked up to find a grinning Jazz perched casually atop the cube. "Yes, I believe so, and since you volunteered you can start unloading it. Be sure to get those power cells to Ratchet right away and confiscate accordingly." Optimus fitted his hands into a smaller, deeper indent in the side of the charred block and, after much mechanical fuss, removed a large section of its surface. Inside were stacked smaller metal cubes braced by sheets of foamy padding.

"Awww, Optimus. I'm still recoverin' and all."

"Ratchet informed me that he discharged you for light duty. This is light duty."

"Jus' don't tell Prowl I've been hangin' around to keep him company. He'd lecture me into my grave for bein' lazy." He jovially took the most readily available cube and turned to go, but paused, "You'd better have a look at the other two, Optimus. Somethin' you need to see." And he disappeared into the base of the dam.

Apprehensive, the Autobot leader made his way around the supply block. The pair of undamaged cubes were identical, each intricately composed not unlike a landing pod, both a gleaming silver. Optimus cycled a rush of air through his vents as he put a hand flat against the first, looking both cubes over gravely. "Simmons, are the trailers from this morning still here?"

The puzzled man jogged up and took out his walkie-talkie. "They should be, do you want them brought over here?"

"Just one, if you would."

The agent scurried out the end of the temporary structure, giving orders through his radio. When he returned ten minutes later, the contemplative robot hadn't so much as budged. He began to worry as he supervised the man on the yard horse that was maneuvering the empty trailer, accompanied by a small team of army guys negotiating with the blue flap to bring it in.

"Everything alright here?" He asked after he dismissed everyone else.

Somewhat startled from his reverie, Optimus hesitated to respond. "I am fine. It is not I that needs to be worried for." Well _that _wasn't what the agent wanted to hear.

Before he could probe the cryptic statement, Optimus uttered something in Cybertronian and the cube next to him began to hum, and then to transform. When it finished it had compacted and elongated into the shape of the shiny, steel-paneled trailer complete with wheels and hitching mechanisms. A seven-foot Autobrand was embossed on each side, a smaller one on the back. Simmons maintained that, knowing how heavy and difficult the cube had been to move, it could not _possibly _be hollow.

The giant robot moved to the other cube and repeated the process, but when he was done the result was quite different. The cube's dimensions had changed to those of a shipping container, but, alien-looking and wheel-less, it still lacked any kind of resemblance to a trailer.

Whistling in awe, the agent circled the two. "Why'd that happen? Is something wrong with it?"

Optimus shook his head, "No. I simply lack the access codes to induce a complete transformation, and I would rather not apply an override. It would be disrespectful." He sounded rather forlorn.

"…oh. Well, what should we do with these things? Are you going to need them?"

Optimus gestured to the innocent-looking trailer-thing. "That one may be useful; I will want easy access to it should the need arise. The other…" the bot's shoulders sagged a fraction, "it should be put in long-term storage somewhere safe. I cannot use it, but I do not want anything to happen to it nonetheless."

"Whatever you say, big guy."

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Looks like the twins have some 'splaining to do. If they ever escape Ratchet alive…

Stick around. Sad foreshadowing aside… we're about to have a lot of fun, kids.

Almost more fun than Lobsting, the transforming tennis ball Lobster. He'll pelt you with fuzzy green death on and off the court!


	43. Cops and Robbers

That took longer to edit than I thought, meant to have it up immediately.

I _know _there are people as fascinated by the Disappearing Trailer Phenomenon as I am. It just kind of… floats away… Not anymore! Muahahaha! Actually, that's kind of sad…

Still don't own TF mates.

Cops and Robbers Make Fine Friends

By the next afternoon the screams had stopped, the mysterious cargo in its various forms had been moved inside, and things had generally returned to normal around the base of giant robotic operations. Meaning Ratchet was yelling at someone; this time: Prowl.

"I _told _you you weren't to leave my sight until I fixed your energy problems! And what do you do? You go gallivanting around with Sam. What if you had passed out again?"

Prowl was irked but prepared for this. "I understand your concerns, but I was careful not to do anything strenuous. And now that my energy cells have been replaced it should no longer be an issue," he argued curtly.

Ratchet yanked on something where he was working in his chest, probably on purpose. "Yes, well, if Ironhide's precious firepower hadn't been at stake I probably would have let you live with it for a good long while, just to teach you a lesson. These things were hard to come by even _before _we were stranded on a distant planet. And I could have written a dissertation on my modifications; they would have gotten me awards back on Cybertron. You just can't go running off when you're injured."

"You clearly stated that I was in your way, and I determined that remaining here was more hazardous than a leisurely walk. I apologize for inconveniencing you."

Ratchet gave him a hard stare as he tested Prowl's replacement (and not second-hand) armor panels for loose joints. "Yes, well… I suppose you are right. But do not disobey me again; I have enough to worry about with those fraggers without discovering I'm missing an unstable patient." He welded a neat seam around his friend's newly reinforced chest plate, still the souvenir from his mining cluster escapades.

"Very well. Your instructions?"

Tapping lightly on the panel, Ratchet put away his laser-welder and straightened. "Light duty. No heavy lifting, no excessive speeds, and stay within ten minutes' travel of my location. For me, not you, you eight-cylinder workaholic. And I want to see you again this time tomorrow to make sure your internal repair system is reintegrating the cells and circulation lines properly, we can't have you springing a leak. Now get out; I have supplies to catalogue."

Prowl nodded and made for the exit, "How long until Sunstreaker and Sideswipe regain consciousness?" he added as an afterthought over his shoulder.

Ratchet put his hands on his hips and glared at the snoozing pair in question, "Well, Sunstreaker could be up and about in a few hours, assuming I extracted all of the shrapnel. But considering I had to half-dismantle Sideswipe just to _find _his slagging arms in all that mess and reconstruct him from his spark casing out, then rework _all _of his major sensor relays, he'll be down for a few days until he reaches acceptable structural integrity. I would get awards for that one too, thank you very much, and on a tight schedule to boot. But also considering that I am _not _dealing with a cranky Sunstreaker hanging around while his partner in idiocy is still unconscious, the sleeping beauties can both stay in locked recharge for a week as far as I'm concerned." And, that said, he started puttering about and fussing with the items in one of the small supply containers Jazz had so kindly dropped off, muttering to himself.

Deciding he should leave before the Chief Medical Officer changed his mind, Prowl quickly left the vicinity. He ran into Optimus Prime on his way out.

"Prowl, you are looking well. Have you been discharged?"

"I have been deemed fit for light duty, if you have any work for me."

"I am afraid not, things are quiet; you will just have to find a way to occupy yourself for the time being. What is the status of the twins?" His leader's worry made the tactician frown.

"They are both in stasis recovering. Ratchet apparently doesn't plan to wake them for a week, but he said Sunstreaker would be functional in a few hours. I'm sure he could be persuaded if it is urgent." 

Optimus's frown only deepened, "No, I do not suppose it is. In that case I will be heading out for a while." After maneuvering himself about under the ceiling that was just inches too short, he preceded Prowl out of the tunnel in long strides.

Jazz approached him stealthily from behind, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he watched Prime drive away. Accustomed to the practice, he did not jump, but merely turned and raised a brow-plate at the mischievously smirking bot under the visor.

"What's on your mind, cop-bot?"

Not exactly endeared by the new nickname, Prowl ignored it, "I was wondering why Optimus Prime is so worried. The twins will, of course, be fine."

Magnetically sealing his hand to the other mech, Jazz dragged him across the wide, grey expanse of concrete, greeting several humans along the way. Against the far wall sat two blocky metal forms. "They're gettin' a storage space ready for them now. I suspected this one would show up eventually," he gestured to the shiny trailer, "but it's the other one that's got Optimus all concerned."

Inspecting the various inscriptions and finding no possible mistake as to the object's identity, Prowl's frown deepened. "I see. Do you think he was killed?"

The silver bot shrugged, "Magnus is a strong bot with a good CPU on his frame; I'll believe he's gone when I see it. But there's no message coded in its computer. And they're _both _here, that counts for somethin' too. If he was the one that sent Optimus his, he woulda known the difference and there'd only be one here. I jus' hope the twins can sort this out when they wake up."

The tactician nodded, "Let us hope. It would be just like them to show up not knowing anything about what they brought."

His statement was rewarded by a punch in the shoulder, "Hey man, don't jinx it. Look, Ironhide and I are busy reorganizing the cargo; the little glitches are the messiest thieves I've ever laid optics on. You wouldn't believe some of the crap they brought with 'em! Why don't you go out and poke around outside a while? This planet's mighty pretty."

Jazz's grin was far too sweet and innocent.

Prowl couldn't help but feel he was being gotten rid of, but he had been cooped up in that one room for _days _and really _did _want a look at Earth with his sensory input back to normal…

"Fine. But when I come back, I will find out exactly what you've been scheming, Jazz." He about-faced and walked away in that stiff march of his, missing the devious grin that split the spy's face behind his back.

"Bring it on, cop-bot. This gangsta mech ain't amateur enough to give you the chance."

88888888888888888

Oh god, Jazz just said 'gangsta'… it just slipped out, I swear…

Poppamaize is an oddly-named, bad-tempered popcorn cart. RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! He is the bane of all mecha!

I must be in a weird mood or something… Please review anyway!


	44. The Master at Work

The plot thickens. Not the plot of the story mind you; Jazz's plot. My plot is secondary to his (apparently).

I don't own Transformers. Whoever does needs to let Optimus survive once in a while.

The Master at Work

Jazz whistled to himself, or made approximations thereof, as he moved back to where Ironhide was re-packing the contents of the containers. He had become fond of the human habit, as it put forth an air of false banality and innocence that he found entirely too agreeable. Primus only knows how he managed to make his vocalizer produce the sound so charmingly.

He considered himself a humble mech, but one so skilled in his field as to give off a cocky vibe when he was only assessing his abilities at face value. It was a blessing and a curse. But mostly a blessing.

So if Jazz were to say his plan was perfect, it was only because said plan _was _perfect. Ideal. Precise. Flawless to ten-thousand degrees of the perfection of Primus himself. And, in truth, it probably was.

The setup was impeccable. He'd put himself in exactly the right place at the right time to be given inventory duty. When he'd brought Ratchet his supplies… let's just say the medic's reactions could be predicted to the word and timed to the second where the twins were concerned. It was hardly a challenge to convince him he would be better off waking Sunstreaker with his brother using only some well-placed sarcasm.

Optimus was something of a deeper well, but there had really only been two choices for him to take. Jazz felt somewhat guilty for delaying any kind of news from Cybertron by extending the twins' nap, but the ball _had_ been in Prime's court. He could have had Sunstreaker roused to explain the situation, at which point the brash bot would have irritated Ratchet into sedating him again within a few hours, and the plan would have continued unchanged. The spy was solaced by the fact that his commander and friend had come to the same conclusion he had; there was really nothing they could do, and thus the vain mech should be allowed his beauty sleep. For either resulting reason, habit dictates that a concerned but helpless Optimus Prime will wander off to ponder the situation for a while. Of this the spy had been sure.

Ironhide had been incredibly easy to win over into his little scheme. All he had to do was bring up some of the times he and the older mech had shared and battles they had fought together. It worked like a charm; the gruff bot immediately fell into a reminiscent mood, at which point all Jazz had to do was plainly state the goal of his plan. Ironhide made an excellent accomplice in a scheme of this nature; apparently conspiracy made for a fine thrill when there was nothing to shoot at. Especially for something so completely macho.

Ratchet proved to be just as easy to manipulate when it came time for a second round. A few hints towards revenge against the twin terrors here, a good-natured allusion to Prowl's chronic stress there, and maybe some flattery for genuinely good work on the side, and the medic was all audios. His enthusiasm and stubbornness was just what Jazz needed for the next stage.

Prowl's resistance had been righteous, but ineffectual against the unified insistence of the conspirators. Even Bumblebee, who trusted Ironhide's judgment implicitly where he was skeptical of Jazz and Ratchet's dubious motives, was eager to help even without all the details. With Jazz playing the emotional chords, Ironhide doing some curse-strewn posturing, Ratchet spewing threats regarding the conditions of his release, and a yellow robot blocking the tunnel and flashing very large, bright optics, the tactician never had a chance.

And it is because of this perfectly prepared and flawlessly executed plan that four giant space robots and a truckload of high-grade energon ended up in a cozy little canyon in Utah in the middle of the night.

Which is why Jazz could quite honestly say he was a conspiratorial genius.

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If Jazz used his powers for evil… the Decepticons would probably have a lot more fun. Kind of worrisome how much control he got over the situation though, and he hardly had to _do _anything. Scary bot. Glad he's on our side.

Speaking of skating competitions… (Wait, what?! O.o) Zamboiler is the super-mecha-Zamboni! The trail he leaves behind him is so slippery, everyone in the world will slip and get concussed in his swath of icy devastation! Only figure-skaters can save us now!

Oh don't worry. I'll update again tomorrow or Sunday.


	45. Us, Here, Together

**PLEASE NOTE THAT I'VE BEEN EDITING AND REPOSTING LIKE A MADWOMAN. I am so satisfied with this process that I have printed out a hard copy. That's right, on real, actual paper.**

**Carry on.**

**Myrmidryad: **Yep, a canyon in southern Utah. I was thinking in Zion or Bryce Canyon NPs, but there are plenty of desolate canyons to go around. In Utah. Can't drop-kick Frenzy's head without hitting a canyon in Utah. Ok, now I'm rambling…

First of all, this chapter contains references to a substance whose effects on alien robots is similar to those of **alcohol** on humans. Be warned. And also know that it wasn't written just for the sake of an "OMGZ those ROBOTS are DRUNXORZ!" moment. I know, it's weird that way, but it's a lot of fun too. Be aware.

Always consume high-grade responsibly. Keep out of reach of sparklings.

Don't drink and roll out.

Us, Here, Together, With High-Grade…

"Why did I come along with you three again?" Prowl asked sourly as he watched the medic unloading the softly glowing cubes from Ironhide's bed.

His accursed spy friend clapped him on the shoulder as he arranged himself comfortably on some adjacent rock formations, "Because your best friend, who recently came back from the dead for your sake, wants you to drink with him?" His grin was as cheeky as his tactic was low.

"Because your conditions of medical release require you to stay within my emergency radius unless you want to incur disciplinary action." Ratchet's tone clearly dared him to object.

"Because you're acting like an uptight youngling and you fragging need to get overcharged." Ironhide was, as usual, to the point.

"I don't think those are-" Jazz cut him off with a poke to his right door-wing.

"Lighten up a little, Prowl. The four of us are finally all here and I'm ready to do some good, old-fashioned celebratin.' Besides, this is probably the last high-grade we'll see for a good, long while. An' Prime ordered me to confiscate, so I confiscated." He shrugged innocently, un-shielded optics twinkling with mischief.

"Somehow I don't think this is what he had in mind." Prowl was still frowning. That would have to be fixed.

By force, if necessary.

Ratchet scowled, "Think of it this way, you good-for-nothing logician; energon is detrimental to humans' systems. We can't just leave it lying around in their facility because Primus knows that Simmons character would love to run tests on it and they might be hurt. Plus, the twins would probably find a way to get it back. Would you rather get fritzed now or find _them_ completely fritzed in the indeterminate future?" He brought over some cubes and handed two to Jazz before lowering himself onto a rock on the other side of the small ravine.

Prowl's logic centers were beginning to ache, "Then why didn't you invite Optimus Prime if this makes so much sense? You could likely convince Primus himself to join you with all of the thought and effort you put into this underhanded scheme of yours."

"Man, you've never been drinking with Optimus before, have you?" A brief frown flickered across Jazz's features. "Mech holds it like a tanker. We barely have enough to get him depressed; it would take at _least _another crate to cheer the bot up again. Meanwhile the four of us can get nice 'n' buzzed together like we used to." He cheerfully thrust a cube into Prowl's hands, where it was regarded with frownful consideration.

"Yes, well I still don't see why you feel the need to force me to join you. I'm perfectly happy remaining sober by myself." He continued eyeing his drink suspiciously. Jazz and Ratchet were sipping theirs, and Ironhide was already on his second cube.

Jazz looked mildly insulted, "That's not the point, cop-bot. 'S not about the high-grade. It's about the company! We make you join us 'cause we like ya, and you hardly ever smile unless you're halfway under. So wipe that frown off your faceplates once in a while an' we won't have to wipe it off for ya." He playfully jabbed the tactician in the side with his elbow.

Said faceplates twitched, his frown briefly interrupted by… something. "This _is _all that they brought?"

"Yep."

"And you trust the humans with the twins as they are?"

Jazz gave his bizarre little thumbs-up, "They're alright, and the Bumble-bot's got it under control."

"And you're _sure _there won't be any more high-grade appearing any time soon?"

"This is the whole stash, cross my spark and hope to glitch."

"What…?" Prowl sighed, "Never mind. I suppose it won't hurt to… dispose of it then. If only so I won't have to deal with your scheming for a while." He gingerly took a sip from his cube, nearly spitting it out in surprise. "_This _is Sunstreaker's legendary high-grade? I expected something a little more…" The usually articulate bot was at something of a loss.

"Like engine solvent?" Ratchet huffed in fond irritation, "It would be, but I suppose there's no way they could have brought their own. They must have stolen this from the Decepticons, who still have _real _refineries."

Ironhide downed the last of his second cube and moved on to his third, "Some bots happen to like the little fragger's stuff."

"You would, your taste receptors are probably so old and worn out you can't tell that it's complete slag."

"Mute it, _medic. _Doesn't matter what it tastes like if it's that strong. Really scours the systems, fast."

"You two have been drinking with the twins?" Prowl sounded downright scandalized.

Ratchet chuckled and grabbed another drink. "Don't be ridiculous. Not _with_ them. But once they had the audacity to try hiding their stash in my medbay, of all places. Probably when they thought you were close to finding it, and figured they were always there anyway… I simply took measures to discourage them from doing so ever again. By drinking it all with Ironhide, Perceptor, and Wheeljack."

"You should have reported it to me. I would have disciplined them for contraband and, I assume, tampering with your supply cabinets."

"And they would have done it again. I think finding their precious stores completely gone got the point across much better." The medic's smug look positively reeked of evil.

Jazz cut off Prowls protest, "If there's one thing I know 'bout Sunny 'n' Sides, it's that the doc's law is the only one they understand. I'd like to have seen the looks on their faces when they figured out you drank _all _of that slag!"

Ratchet smirked and preened a little in satisfaction, "Yes, well, it was even better than that. 'Jack got the emergency lights in the medbay flashing without setting anything off and we got Blaster to pipe us a channel of his music over the intercom. It took us a while to notice them in the doorway, we were having so much fun. They'd gotten into a fight and wanted late-night medical attention, of course. Sideswipe had to reboot on his feet, he was so shocked. And I think we gave Sunstreaker a CPU meltdown; he suffered cooling system failure and blew a few power relays in his cranial unit. Seems the simultaneous directives to throttle me and go into permanent stasis lock did him in."

The tactician couldn't stifle a snicker of satisfaction.

"What _did_ you do about them?" Jazz inquired a little too earnestly.

"You mean you were in no way a part of this fiasco?" Prowl eyed the smaller bot suspiciously.

"Naw, I was on a mission that time. Wish I'd been there, but the security footage is _priceless._ I stole it and replaced the recording with something I cobbled together out of the previous week, of course."

"Of course," Prowl grumbled dryly and downed the remainder of his cube, reaching for another one.

Ironhide let out a snort of amusement as he too took a cube from the stack. "Ratch put 'em both in stasis lock and left 'em in iso. We went right on partyin' after that. Pit of a good time."

"Of course I made sure neither of them would die first. But they never did try hiding anything of theirs in my medbay ever again. Apparently, and I quote, the sight of 'rusty old wrecks' like us 'imbibing high-grade and engaging in unspeakably dated maneuvers once referred to as dance' was 'an atrocity that would be forever burned into their memory banks and haunting their every computation for all eternity.' They couldn't look at me for weeks without shivering at the thought." The memory had the medic practically cackling himself off of his rock.

"Makes ya think they might not be so hard to deal with after all." Jazz's grin split even wider, "All you'd hafta do is do 'The Sharkticon' every time they came for repairs and they'd figure out how to dodge in a real hurry."

"I tried that the next day. All it did was get energon tracked all over the ship until I caught up with the little slaggers."

Prowl's optics suddenly widened in realization, "They ended up in my office, didn't they? I wondered what you'd done to have Sideswipe hiding behind _me _and Sunstreaker _asking _to be put in the brig."

Ratchet sighed fondly, "Happiest day of my life."

Ironhide gave the medic a friendly thump on the shoulder that really did knock him off the rock, "Yer a real piece of work, Ratch. You've got a real mean streak, but a smart one. A few big guns and another one o' them blades and you could be the scourge of all the Decepticons."

Prowl let out an uncharacteristic snort, tossing his empty cube on the growing pile and grabbing a full one, "You didn't see what he did to Long Haul. Not that the good doctor needs to do any fighting to be the scourge of anyone; the fact that every one of us was injured and back our feet within days attests to that. Even if he overexerted himself to do it."

The medic's heat signature brightened, "You're one to talk, Commander Sneaks-into-Decepticon-mines-and-frags-Soundwave-off-for-a-rock. I can't _believe _you made it here and stayed online long enough for us to save your aft. Don't ever tell me what you did to your emergency protocols to do it either, I don't want to know. I just hope you can reset them yourself. And _you-" _he brandished a sloshing cube at the weapons specialist, "-a mech of your configuration playing Jet Judo with Starscream is ludicrous. I have an inkling of what you did to jump like that, and if you _ever _speak even a hint of it within hearing of the twins I swear to Primus I will be using _your _parts to repair the damage. Damned if I'm not in the company of seven of the universe's biggest dangers to themselves."

Jazz snagged another drink from the diminishing stack, juggling it with his empty cube before tossing the latter in their pile. "Us plus you makes eight, Doc. Primus help th' 'cons if they're plannin' on comin' here ta fight the universe's eight biggest dangers to themselves. Especially with Doc Hatchet in the house," he snickered as he dodged a well-aimed empty energon cube.

"Bumblebee counts towards that figure now?" Prowl sounded surprised and mildly disappointed.

Ironhide growled and tossed his head to look off to the side somewhere, "After Tiger Pax? Of course he does. Let himself get captured by humans to protect Sam and Mikaela too. Then he got his feet crushed off protecting Sam and the Allspark. And while you were leading Long Haul around blind, he let Skorponok shred him to protect Sam and the Lennoxes. At this rate he'll martyr himself before Prime does." The black mech rumbled darkly.

"Don't say that. With that human around, I doubt either one of them will get the chance. And again I point out that you _leapt into the air _and _grabbed Starscream by the nose _at high velocity, so you're hardly one to run your vocalizer. You're just lucky you have a secondary frame from your refit; a newer model would have ended up in two pieces."

"An' lemme tell you, 'Hide, that ain't no fun." Jazz lurched forward to speak more personally, "Though th' company sure got interesting. You know Nexus was still fragged over the time I switched the receivers in the Command intercoms and the sparkling monitors?"

Ironhide roared with laughter, "It figures that that was you. It would be just like him, too. Never mind being killed in a Decepticon attack, when a junior sabotage expert messes with _his _city he takes it to the Matrix. You know, when I met Magnus I wondered if Nexus hadn't been re-sparked somehow. It's good to hear he got where he was going. And still angry over _that _little prank! I remember going on-shift and finding Sentinel's office full of little squeaks and clickin.' The commander just laughed his aft off replyin' to the little things with Nexus blowing a gasket outside the door!" The large mech's guffaws quickly infected even the two bots who hadn't witnessed the event in question.

"At least until he caught wind of me, then he spent _hours _chasing me around. I didn't think he could run that fast. I must've had to clean the whole city after telling him just what I did so they could fix it." The long-time saboteur tossed his empty cube at Ironhide, the large bot not noticing when it bounced off his shoulder.

Ratchet snorted, "Well, you _did _effectively block the intra-city comms for the most important mechs on Cybertron. Was it worth it, you little sneak?"

Jazz's grin only got cheekier, "Sure was. It was right at the beginning, when stuff started disappearing and bots started lyin' to each other, and it was bad 'cause there weren't any real security measures to take and no one knew what was wrong yet. Wouldn't for thousands o' Earth years either. The big bot needed cheerin' up, and the Jazz-master always delivers. Besides, don't tell me you didn't enjoy the surprise attention, cute little thing that you were." He was pelted by another cube-like projectile before the medic stopped short and rubbed his temple.

"Oh sweet Primus, I think I do remember…"

Prowl was staring stunned at the spy, "You got in and out of the Command level unnoticed? Next you're going to tell me you abducted and _delivered _all of the sparklings that kept showing up in Optimus Prime's office."

"Nope. I just dropped a hint as to when to let one get away and the little sneaks would find their way up there on their own. Amazin' really. He's like some kind of big overworked homing beacon."

"'Let one get away..?" You coerced the sparklings' caretakers? That's impossible." Prowl dispassionately contributed to the empty cube pile.

"Correction: I coerced the Manager. Much easier that way; thought it was a great idea too." He slung an arm around his scandalized friend, "Keep that up and your face might rust that way. Hey, 's not like one ever got out in an emergency. This mech's timing," he splayed his free hand on his chest plate, "is perfect. And he _alway_s has a plan."

Prowl growled and snatched another cube, "Like when you reorganized my personnel files before review?" He downed the energon in one draught and impaled the empty container on a silver antler.

"What's a bot to do? You buried yourself in so many disciplinary records and health records and record records for so long that y'never looked up and you probably couldn't've recalled what color Bluestreak was, much less judged his character. I, in my ultimate wisdom, decided you needed ta get reacquainted with the personnel. So I reintroduced you." The saboteur couldn't help a chuckle at his friend's expense.

"All of that… was to make me hunt everyone down for re-submission… so I would remember what color they were?" Prowl was shaking and his face was scrunched up in a somewhat pained frown.

"Yep." The spy removed his arm from the tactician's shoulders and brushed the cube off his head, ready to dodge or run.

But Prowl merely convulsed a little. And a little more. And then he was laughing at the top of his vocalizer- a hoarse, strained sound that was probably a bit dusty from disuse. Jazz couldn't help but burst into snickers himself at the odd sight, but Ratchet and Ironhide froze in shock. "You thought… I wouldn't… _recall? _What color _Blue_streak was?" He rapped the spy on the head, mindful of the metal horns, his eyes flashing in dangerous amusement as he continued in little spasms of uncontrollable laughter.

Ratchet inexplicably started chortling away just as startlingly, whispering something indecipherable to Ironhide, which got him guffawing loudly again as well.

"Made you do it, didn't I? And got you laughing to boot. Told you we'd laugh about it together someday. Didn't think it was _that _funny though…" Jazz's shifting gaze upon the group spoke to a continued nervousness.

"You insufferable, meddling... _glitch." _The black and white mech clamped a hand down on the silver bot's shoulder and forced him to lean closer, smiling darkly, "You weren't there, were you? I was hit in the face with a plasma flare in a fight with Onslaught early in my career. My light wavelength receptors have been fused since Hydra Tesseron!" Jazz blinked slowly before coming to a realization.

And proceeded to keel over in hysterics. "You… ya never… told me you was… _colorblind! _You glitch!"

When the four had calmed down enough to sit back up and try cycling air properly again, Ironhide made a forlorn observation, "Last four cubes."

"We should toast to something." Ratchet reached out to take two, wobbling a little as he gave one to the larger mech beside him.

"To being rid of this slag," Prowl suggested in a mock toast.

"To getting Prowl overcharged, 'cause he fragging well needed it," suggested Ironhide.

"Nah, to the Jazz-master, for bein' the coolest bot in the universe and keepin' everyone from losin' their processors," he thrust his drink high in the air to proclaim his superiority.

"You three are impossible. I suggest we toast to the twins, for providing us the opportunity to get good and fritzed together while they are delightfully unconscious." Ratchet's sneer was indeed delightful.

"_I _suggest you toast to, oh, perhaps a new home, a future with the humans, peace in the universe, and the fact that you are all still alive despite being quite inebriated and out in the open."

"_Optimus?!"_

"Sir!" Prowl tried to stand up, but promptly collapsed back on his rear, much to Jazz's amusement.

Said Autobot leader raised his hands in surrender and appeasement, "Don't hurt yourselves. I merely came to check on you as per request of the human government. Just make sure you turn your lights off, quiet yourselves such that you can no longer be heard from the road, and clean up when you are finished. I expect you all back tomorrow, at which point I will find something for each of you to be doing. Since you do seem to have too much free time to carry out elaborate plots for recreation." Amusement sparkled in his optics as he turned to go, only to be caught in a magnetic grip.

"Where're you goin?' Stay and give us somethin' good to toast to, Optimus! …I don't quite remember what you said."

The Autobot leader paused for a moment and allowed himself to be led over to the group of drunken space robots. "I suppose that right now you should be toasting to Bumblebee, who took great pains to avoid implicating any of you in any kind of wrongdoing."

Jazz nodded assent, "Yeah, he's a good little-"

"And to Jazz, who manipulated every one of us to get overcharged with you three here tonight."

Ironhide swayed and loudly approved, "Here's to that, you slimy little sneak. Damn good id-"

"And let us not forget Ratchet, without whom none of you would be functional enough to drink, let alone enjoy the experience."

Ratchet ducked his head, "Well, I suppose that is technically true-"

"And Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, and Ironhide, who brought the energon here, each in their own way, I am sure."

"Sure did." The black bot acknowledged, but was interrupted before he could drink.

"And of course Prowl, for putting up with the three of you somehow."

"…somehow."

"And then there are the Decepticons, who made this high-grade to be stolen, stolen again, and enjoyed by you four."

"Hey, I don't think-" but poor Ironhide was cut off yet again.

And again.

And again.

-Twenty minutes later-

"-And finally, we must recognize the contribution of Gamma Pentax, who originally refined energon into high-grade purity to try to better the lives of all Cybertrons." By then the four were looking wide-opticked at their cubes in despair, realizing only moments later that the semi-historical diatribe was at its end.

"We can drink now?" asked the hopeful weapons specialist.

Optimus chuckled, "Yes, you can drink now. Consider yourselves duly disciplined for your infractions."

"Wait, ya forgot one!"

When a four-fingered hand intercepted Ironhide's cup, he charged his free cannon and aimed it at the saboteur, "WHAT THE FRAG IS IT NOW?!"

Jazz stood and raised his cube, "A toast to a big mech with a big spark, for givin' us a lovely toast, a light punishment, and remindin' us that we're all important even when we seem pretty stranded and alone and all we're tryin' to do is get good 'n' fritzed together before things get bad again. To Optimus Prime."

"_To Optimus Prime!"_ And Jazz downed half his cube in one gulp, the others blissfully following suit. Ironhide emptied his in one go.

Optimus was well and truly touched until his well-and-truly-fritzed third in command elbowed Prowl in the side and added, "And to Bluestreak, the only bot who's color Prowl _can_ identify, and to telling the twins all about it so they'll come up with some creative pranks!" With that he drained the rest of his energon. For his joke Jazz was shoved onto his side, laughing and unable to right himself. Alone in his sobriety, Optimus decided to leave before the situation deteriorated any more.

Which it did in spectacular fashion.

But as he drove back towards Boulder City, the sun rising and the sounds of the drunken brawl fading away in the distance, the Autobot leader's thoughts were much more certain that things would turn out alright.

Unfortunately, the one following him away from his comrades knew otherwise.

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I hope that was satisfactory for everyone. Wasn't planning on that last part right now, but it just kind of wormed its way in there, and as a result my schedule for the plot progression has been moved up, for better or for worse.

To be honest, mostly for worse. Noes. Mean author-lady.

What do you think? Drop me a line. But with the little periwinkle button, not snail mail. Or perhaps I mean Snailmail, the world's slowest transformer? He's a mecha USPS truck and he's always mad because his steering wheel is on the wrong side and people do crazy things to pass his slow arft.


	46. A Bombshell in the Hand

So yeah. Remember when I said that I'd written a chapter way ahead of time? This is it. I did have to rewrite most of it, but I like this version better. Much more concise and less confusing. And it's in two parts so I can give you a good old-fashioned cliffhanger.

I hope everyone enjoyed their TB-free Thanksgiving break. (But not _too _much, there was no TB, after all. [wink) Mine was too short, more driving than staying put, and I over-ate every single day. I'm ready for Christmas now please!

I'm glad everyone liked the drunken robot chapter. It took a long time to write because I had to make up so many drunken tales. And boy did I make stuff up! Now some dead bot named Ultra Nexus is mad at Jazz and Prowl's colorblind! I _was_ hesitant to do that and then, as usual, I thought to myself: "_What's wrong with you? You're the author! You can do what you want!" _And thus, in my power-trip, I went there.

But I don't own Transformers.

A Bombshell in the Hand

The new day was bright and busy in Boulder City, Nevada, especially under the impressively-engineered tourist trap known as Hoover Dam.

Much to the amusement of the agents and workers frequenting the space formerly known as Sector Seven, and in lieu of a completed Autobot-and-human-friendly conversation space, Maggie had set up her desk on a scaffold she had appropriated in the NBE 01 chamber (with some robotic help), completely oblivious to the construction going on around her.

She and Bumblebee were working on a basic Cybertronian-English dictionary so she and Glen could try deciphering the complicated code and write a translation program of some sort. Discovering that the world's best hacker had only been able to extract English terms from Frenzy's upload, not the main body of the transmission, the friendly bot had only been too happy to help. So as a yawning Sam lay on the lower level of the scaffold watching the work, the Australian analyst grilled his large yellow friend for helpful words.

Going over what he had already given her- or, rather, her computer- she did not look happy.

"Bumblebee, this is a three-dimensional visual and auditory cryptogram. No human is _ever_ going to be able to produce this- or even understand it."

Nodding, the robot peeked curiously at her computer, which was displaying Glen's analytical program and emitting mechanical wails through its tiny speakers. "Agreed. This," he pointed tentatively with a large, metal finger, "is how we transmit large amounts of information, usually over long distances or in a formal report. It encodes both narrative and sensory data, and is always at least superficially encrypted. Generally speaking, it isn't conversational. Perhaps an adequate comparison would be email?"

Maggie pursed her lips thoughtfully and nodded. "Thank God. I can't imagine this as a basic linguistic structure. It's insane!"

"Yes. I think starting with the spoken version would be more manageable."

"Alright. I'm recording everything for reference starting now. I'll ask you to list the names of your planet, factions, and the robots currently or previously on Earth, first in your language and then in English. That will give us some practical nouns to start with. Whenever you're ready."

"Certainly. Cybertron, Autobot, Decepticon, Optimus Prime, Jazz, Ironhide, Ratchet, Bumblebee, Prowl, Megatron, Starscream, Barricade, Frenzy, Blackout, Scorponok, Devastator, Bonecrusher, Long Haul."

"Good, now if you'd be willing I'd like to hear the names of the Autobots we are most likely to come in contact with and any distress signals or standard transmissions we might hear. If we know what we're looking for, we'll be able to avoid international incidents like the one with the Russian television satellite."

"Alright. Here is a standard Autobot S.O.S…."

You get the picture. They'll be at it for a while.

The other personnel had been in a tizzy all morning trying to figure out why the five figures of robotic authority had spontaneously left the yellow scout and the pair of unconscious newcomers alone the previous evening. Theories ranging from an imminent attack to more landing robots to illegal desert raves had surfaced and run amok among the caffeinated secret agents. Unfortunately, asking seemed to be too simple of a solution to the lack of information on the subject.

It was therefore an affair of no small wonder or gossip-generating capacity when the custom-painted semi had rolled casually into the facility from the access road early that morning. He visited the unconscious pair briefly before wandering over to observe Bumblebee and Maggie in action, but for several hours now he had just been standing, silent and contemplative, in the middle of the great cavern that had housed the Allspark, sending the human contingent into a speculative frenzy.

He couldn't _possibly _just be waiting for the others to come back from a night of hard-earned drunken celebration. No, that would be too human. Too _normal._ These are alien robots we're talking about here people. Giant ones.

Giant extraterrestrial robots are definitely not normal.

Since around lunch break the chamber had been discreetly emptied except for necessary traffic and everyone was on edge wondering what was going on.

It was mid-afternoon when all hell broke loose.

Frantic announcements of an unidentified flying object- a UFO, if you will- heading towards the facility and emergency instructions blared over the PA, but were drowned out by the automated warning that played when the access doors opened under the dam.

Everyone panicked when a large silver arrowhead dove into the canyon and darted into the tunnel as the hatch reversed direction. It streaked into the NBE 01 chamber, turning quickly in a circle that blasted the walls with hot jet fumes before veering down another access tunnel. As Bumblebee dashed to follow, the heavy containment door locked into place as they reached it. The yellow bot's fisted hands meeting the block of solid steel reverberated through the whole structure, but the door held.

"Get it open!" he yelled, turning to the flustered Agent Simmons running towards him.

"I can't, we've been locked out of the system. Someone hacked through the temporary firewalls to open the doors and then put us in permanent lockdown," He said, face glistening with perspiration as he caught his breath.

"Let me look!" Bumblebee urged and, reuniting with Maggie who was furiously typing away on her computer, went wide-eyed with shock at the signal playing across her screen. "What in the name of Primus..?"

Meanwhile…

Starcream had not felt such anxiety since he had lost one of his engines some days ago; the event still sent jolts of static energy down his central nervous column and his still-recovering engine sputtered painfully. But as much as he dreaded doing this, his options were running out and so were his chances of survival. Bracing himself, he dived.

He was not expecting the door to open at just that moment. Hit by a pang of trepidation, he became aware that this might be a trap, and not just of the tourist variety. But how could they know of his movements? He himself had decided this somewhat spontaneously; the jet found it hard to believe that he had been anticipated.

Blasting into the concrete fortress quickly and without any showy maneuvers, he paused only long enough to find his target and to intercept him. In some laughable imitation of good luck, which the Air Commander had never believed in, sturdy containment hatches closed off the tunnels behind him, preventing pursuit. Someone was doing this intentionally. As if he needed the help.

Finding himself in an open space at his destination he transformed and landed quickly, readying his weapons. But luckily he held his fire; he did not come all the way here to get himself killed.

He tensed as Optimus Prime turned to face him, ready to look death in the eye as he did the last time they met. What he saw was either a colossal relief or a crushing disappointment, he couldn't quite decide which.

The Prime that beckoned him forward looked for all the world as if he were receiving a pleasantly unexpected visitor to his office, not a deadly and habitually hostile enemy in a locked room. "Agent Banachek, I thank you for your assistance, but now I must ask you to have this area evacuated in an orderly fashion; I will deal with him alone," the Autobot commander murmured absently. A small flesh-creature scurried off and silently herded several others of the species through a small door somewhere behind them. The jet watched them warily until they were gone and the door was bolted behind them.

Starscream warily stalked up to place himself beside and behind the tall Autobot. He briefly glanced up at the empty space into which his 'host' stared and, not seeing anything worth looking at, fixed his attention solely on the silent robotic monolith.

It was some minutes later that Optimus Prime deigned to move, turning to address the Seeker, who crouched defensively at the motion. "The Allspark was here. For twelve thousand years it sat in this very spot. The rock is saturated with its energy. This room remembers it."

_Well any sparkling could tell me that, _the jet mentally scoffed.

Turning to face the defensive Decepticon directly, Optimus was pleased to note that, while he was bristling with weapons, they were all pointed elsewhere. Perhaps that was progress. "How can I help you, Starscream?"

Barely preventing himself from making a derisive comment, Starscream retracted his weapons and shifted to a more confident stance. As he spoke his arms served to balance him and emphasize his words while his head flicked about on his short neck, birdlike. "I need no help from you, _Prime._ But because of a certain _insane_ stupidity, neither of us can afford your ignorance any longer. Tell me, do you care for Cybertron?" he snarled, crossing the other mech's field of vision to circle him in the calculated prowl of a predator.

Prime sighed unhappily, "Of course I do. If you are here, the situation must be dire indeed. As long as you do not intend to do violence here, I will be only too happy to cooperate."

Starscream hissed in displeasure. "There will be no 'cooperation.' I will tell you something _you _have failed to realize, you will tell me something I want to know, and then I will leave and 'do violence' as I see fit."

Optimus answered without hesitation. "Agreed. Any insight you can offer will be repaid in kind."

Searching him for any hint of a lie, Starscream seemed at least temporarily satisfied. "It started when Skywarp and Thundercracker hunted down and killed your weapons specialist's protégée and her patrol partner."

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Oops. I don't know what to tell you, I kinda just killed them. That's not good.

Nor is Cliffhanger, the evil electric winch. He'll dangle you by your underpants before he tells you what happens next!

Please review so I can see your lovely (if shrunken) avatars whenever I update!


	47. Is Worth Two in the Pit

I did several things over vacation. I made a 'book cover' for TB, which I am rather proud of. I'll hopefully post it and get a link out there in my next chapters. I've also redone some of our favorite Transformers iPod-style. I'll post those too.

D8 is the position of the black queen on the chessboard.

I don't own Transformers.

"_It started when Skywarp and Thundercracker hunted down and killed your weapons specialist's protégée and her patrol partner…"_

Worth Two in the Pit

He paused to gauge the Autobot Commander's reaction, but saw only surprise and grief. Starscream realized that this was the first time he'd been in close contact with Prime without his battle mask in place. It made him pathetically easy to read.

"Were they…?" For once couldn't seem to find the words.

"Field units Autobot Chromia and Autobot Arcee, confirmed terminated." He parroted back the contents of the report.

"I… see. Please, continue."

Encouraged by the lack of retaliatory violence, Starscream did. "Skywarp, as he is sometimes wont to do when things don't go his way, teleported based on a blind guess while he was under fire. They were deep in the tunnels under old Iacon."

Prime froze in dread. _So it is as I expected, _Starscream thought to himself, but without the usual satisfaction gleaned from being right. "A huge Autobot insignia. That is what he found there."

"What is it you want me to tell you?" the elder bot asked, shuttering his optics sadly.

The jet planted himself firmly in front of his longtime enemy, extending the joints in his raptor legs such that he was level with Optimus Prime. "_I_ want you to tell me it is merely some secret base or weapon you have had hidden under the planet's surface for millennia," he spat. "I _want _you to tell me that all Shockwave is going to cause is an explosion of catastrophic proportions and some dead Autobots," he spread his arms and claws to illustrate his growing anger. "I want _you,_ to tell _me_, that I have made some erroneous miscalculation. That I am _wrong, _Prime." Starscream retracted the translucent shields from his optics and stared straight into the blue ones looking back at him.

There was a long silence before the Autobot spoke, "We both know better than that, I am afraid, Starscream. And I am also afraid that explains why Soundwave and Shockwave have been developing an energon resonance weapon. But what could they hope to accomplish without being destroyed themselves? That I do not know."

Starscream dropped back to his normal posture, replaced his optical shields, and scoffed, "Energon resonance? Now that _is _an interesting turn of events, the two of them working together. Shockwave is a loose cannon, and I would have never put it past him to have overlooked the significance of Skywarp's blunder and ruin us all on a whim. Soundwave, however, will have found some way to stay in control of the situation before planning something so… _ridiculous. _Megatron was on several occasions a pawn in his designs, and Shockwave is much less suspicious. Yes, Soundwave will be at the root of this. If you will excuse me, I have a communications officer to terminate." He executed a mock-bow, and turned towards the exit.

He whipped around and nearly opened fire when he was stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"You have not yet perpetrated any irreparable treachery against your fellows. Why do you do so now? I would have described you as subversive and self-serving, but not to the extent you would help me fix this." He seemed to be looking for something more than the answer to his question in the strange-looking Seeker.

Starscream bristled and hissed in irritation. "I'm playing dirty, Prime, and it would be unwise to forget it. Soundwave turned my Seekers against me and now I am supposed to be subordinate to that glitch Skywarp, who is oblivious to what's really going on. I will be a traitor before a slave to those lunatics; contrary to what an Autobot might think, what they are doing is inconceivable to any sane con. I'll will see them terminated and seize control of the Decepticon army myself, even if that requires some… _unorthodox _contacts, since I failed to kill you outright. Now, you _will_ allow me to leave." He twisted his claw into a fist and flung the giant hand off his shoulder, clearly prepared to fight.

Optimus considered the other mech carefully as he relayed a message to Banachek, "You may want to consider staying on this planet for the time being. With Long Haul came another member of Soundwave's unit, probably either Ravage or Ratbat, and Frenzy's remains were never recovered. They may be useful in getting to him. Prowl has given me reason to believe that Soundwave himself is planning to come here, and the twins may have news from our forces on Cybertron. They will wake in a few days." The large door blocking the tunnel began to lift from its resting place, followed by the others beyond it as the lockdown was released.

Even through their covering, Optimus could tell that the jet's optics were narrowed in suspicion. "You talk too much, Prime. Why not let me go in ignorance and discover the applications of this new weapon in battle and be rid of me, the rightful and future leader of the Decepticons? Do you think something has changed between us? If not for this preposterous situation, I would gladly destroy everything you hold dear, your 'peace' and 'equality' and this planet of weaklings will burn in the Pit before I am through." His face twisted into a sneer, "Yes, when this is over and I have melted Soundwave and Shockwave down for my throne, I will make sure you regret not killing me while you had the chance before you join them. This is that chance; are you still going to let me escape?" He listened and heard a whoosh of air as the last hatch opened to the outside.

Optimus sighed and shook his head, "I admit I have done many things in my lifetime that I wish I had not, and many times did not do things that I wish I had, but what I do and do not regret is my business, Starscream. And I will never regret returning an honorable act. Perhaps someday you will understand."

The jet growled in frustration and transformed, his silver form streaking quickly down the tunnel and out of sight, Bumblebee's startled yell ricocheting after him. Echoing through the airwaves came a message full of hatred and determination, "_What I understand is that _honor, _Prime, is wasted on the dishonorable."_

"Indeed it is." And the Autobot Commander went back to waiting.

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Oh how the plot thickens. I know the more well-versed TF fans out there are probably suffering concussions from hitting their heads on their desks at how my sneakiness is failing them on one particular point here, but no worries. This is gonna go down a whole new kind of way. My way, and there _will_ be awesome.

To anyone who has a flying clue of what I'm talking about: I humbly offer you an ice pack. But I maintain that _every_ bot should have a chance to get out there and kick some aft, especially in their shiny new incarnations. Some just need a louder alarm clock than others… (snicker)

To those who don't: You're in a pretty fabulous place right now, so don't worry about it. Hold on to your skidplates; I've got your backs. You'll get it when you read it.

Spoilsport is an evil scoreboard. Let's see _anyone _win a game when he's in charge of the numbers.

What's my score? Wait… what were we playing again? Oh yeah, "Read and Review" is a great game! XP


	48. Chilling with a Ghost

So this is just me fooling around with a shamefully short transitional chapter. I get to antagonize Epps and play screen-time catch-up with our dearly-missed saboteur.

In other news, please make your way through the link in my profile to see the 'book cover' I constructed- from images I don't own- for this story. Gotta put something on the binder cover, right? I cannibalized bits and pieces of letters from the movie title to compose the extra ones with copy and paste in MS Paint, with color effects for Cybertron done in Photoshop. My iPod renderings were done entirely by hand in MS Paint (using the polygon tool), except for the text, which was done in Photoshop. I pride myself in my overdeveloped and mostly useless skills in Paint. The images have been shrunk from desktop size, so sorry but they're not super good quality. If any of them really excite you I'd be happy to email a copy. iRatchet is in the works.

I don't own Transformers.

Chilling with a Ghost

"_**Starscream did WHAT?!?!"**_ Ironhide bellowed furiously. Lennox said that not even he had seen the black truck-robot so purely, terrifyingly angry. The entire underground complex shook with the sound of his roar, setting little Annabelle to crying and her mother to spiriting her out of the room, trying and failing to drag her husband along with them. Beside him, an oddly-dressed Seargent Epps rolled his eyes. His friend would probably pay for that later.

Once the lockdown had been overridden, the room had instantly filled to the brim with worried personnel, and the situation had only deteriorated when the four wayward bots returned.

The little yellow guy- funny how you could begin to categorize a twenty-plus foot tall robot as 'little' based on his company- had been frantic and dashed down the long tunnel as soon as the doors had opened, nearly earning himself a negative proximity reading with the fleeing F-22. Epps and the Lennoxes could hear him yelp from inside the Starbucks where they were catching up, despite the obvious efforts to soundproof the café.

But that was _nothing _compared to the sheer volume of the large black robot's angry tirade; the concerned twittering of Sam's Camaro and the rescue hummer's horrified ranting practically faded into the background of panicked human chatter in comparison. Epps couldn't claim to know any more about alien robot expressions than he did about Fig's, but that black-and-white-guy-he-didn't-recognize's posture and look reminded him of a drill sergeant he'd had in boot camp.

A man fondly referred to as 'Major Hard-Ass.'

As the cacophony rose to nigh unbearable levels, Lennox decided to try and get things back in hand. This of course involved a lot of unsightly shouting and arm-waving and muscling through the crowd of black, camouflage, and metal.

Epps sighed and let himself drift to the back of the room. He felt like that big red and blue robot looked: irritated, helpless, and embarrassed by his company. "_Man, _I cut my honeymoon short for _this?"_ He complained to no one, not expecting a response.

"Dude, I'm with ya there," a voice above and to his right agreed.

"Whoa! Motha f- where the _hell_'d you come from?!" The sergeant nearly jumped out of his skin when he found the space next to him suddenly occupied by a comparatively small- but still _big-_ robot leaning against the wall. He swore he'd stop shaking if only his heart would stop trying to escape his ribcage with all its atrial and ventricular might.

The silver shoulders shrugged, "If I told you I didn't know 'em," it indicated the vocal group of like beings with a tilt of its head, "would ya believe me?" …and was that a sly robot-grin or was he seeing things?

Bewildered but slowly recovering an acceptable heart rate, the man fell back to lean against the wall and couldn't help a wry smirk, "Dude, only if _you_'ll believe I'm not with _him,_" he jerked a thumb in the direction of the overexcited captain.

"Now that's a deal I'd take any day," the robot uncrossed his arms and slipped them behind his head, leaning back to enjoy the show. "So how was th' trip to Hawaii, Sargeant?"

Epps gaped, "How in _Hell_ did you know my honeymoon was in Hawaii? Who are you? How do you know me?"

That was _definitely _a sly robot-grin. "I know _everything, _and stuff's been crazy so I'll forgive ya for not rememberin.'" He used a pointed metallic thumb (_was _that a thumb?) to indicate himself, "Name's Jazz, Autobot head of Covert Ops, coolest bot out there and of the Pontiac persuasion. An' I know you went to Hawaii because your shirt gave ya away."

The man looked down at his bright aqua Aloha shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals sheepishly. "…oh. Wait, weren't-"

"And I hacked your file. The creepy Top Secret one."

"What? Why would you do that? And weren't you _dead?_" What, was he some kind of zombie-robot stalker or something?

"Sure was, but a little thing like that ain't gonna keep the Jazz-master down for long. An' I hacked the entire network. I know _everyone."_

…Covert Ops. Right.

Epps eyed him suspiciously, "So why did you pick me to sneak up on and bother?"

"Does a bot need a reason to chill with the only other dude not participatin' in that mess?" He indicated the sea of chaos in front of them.

That 'dude' slumped back against the wall, the robot spy's grin finally starting to rub off on him, "I guess not. How long do you think they can keep it up before they all lose their voices?"

Jazz just held up a hand and counted backwards on his fingers, "Four… three… two… one…-"

"**ENOUGH!"**

The lights actually flickered from the volume and intensity of the yell.

"Shit…" Epps stared in appreciation at the silent crowd around the fed-up blue and red robot. "How'd you…?"

But 'the Jazz-master' was no longer there.

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And so it continues.

A note on my Starscream: alas, poor Starscream… we don't know him very well at all. Not his shiny new self, anyway. His new voice and design remind me so much of Dinobot from Beast Wars that that's how I've recast his voice in my head when I can't nail down what he's like from his two lines in English. Mind you I'm only referencing the way he talks and mannerisms no one with normal knees could ever develop, not his personality.

Alas for not turning him into the veloceraptor-robot-badass I had a crush on as a seven-year-old.

And, by request from **jainga**, we come face to face with Odorion Felix, the automatic kitty litter-box. He smells. Bad. He'll hurl unspeakable things at you when he gets jammed, and he may even eat your cat. O.o

I want a kitty. T-T My cat died a year ago and now I'm in school, so I can only keep my fat little goldfish, plants, and a fuzzy pillow. It's not the same.

And I have two female chinchillas back in the ancestral land looking for a good home!


	49. A Trickle of Hope Trickles Away

Thanks for all the pretty reviews, but who took the icons away??? Noes! That was cool! For all of three days…

I don't own Transformers. If I did, I would have killed Optimus too many times for my conscience to bear.

A Trickle of Hope Trickles Away

"_The great questions of the day will not be settled by means of speeches and majority decisions… but by iron and blood."_

_-Otto von Bismarck_

How could this have possibly happened?

Ironhide was livid. They go out to celebrate for one night- _one night!-_ and Starscream somehow gets into their current base of operations unhindered.

And gets out alive.

The slagger had killed huge numbers of Autobots. He was treacherous and deadly, and somehow that very Seeker had gotten within point-blank range of Prime. Within firing range of Will's family. Within missile range of a large number of humans. In the safest place they had available to them. On _his _watch.

And all Prime could do was stand there and look placidly back at him.

He could barely control the stream of angry ranting that roared out of his vocalizer, "_**-and when I get a target lock on whoever opened those doors, there won't be anything left to identify! And what the slag is wrong with you? HE COULD HAVE KILLED YOU! And all have to say is-"**_

"**ENOUGH!"**

Ironhide shuttered his optics a few times to refocus. It felt like a bomb had gone off in his face. Prime hadn't raised his volume that high in ages.

Or addressed his comrades with his mask in place.

That was bad.

In the moment that it took for the room to stop vibrating, Ironhide realized that something must be horribly wrong. His commander's faceplates were set so tightly that if he changed his expression, they would be sure to grind.

"Prime…" He didn't know what to say faced with a look so grim.

The Autobot in question stared harshly at his subordinates, "I understand your concern, all of you. But Starscream is the least of our worries now. As you can see, I am unharmed, and no one was injured; you will all have to set aside your animosity for now. Ratchet, I need to know exactly how soon you can wake both of the twins. They need not be mobile, but I need to have a word with them as soon as possible."

The medic's expression furrowed into a deeper scowl. "Sunstreaker is ready for duty any time, once I give him a final check for shrapnel. Sideswipe… technically it wouldn't harm him to regain consciousness now. But he _will _be in pain and unfit to move around. I would prefer to keep him in stasis for a few more days."

"Your concerns are noted, but I would like to speak with them as soon as you can get them online safely. Is Prowl clear for regular duty?"

Ratchet crossed his arms, regarding the likewise-frowning, monochrome bot with his 'I-see-your-innards' scan regimen, "He is, but I'm not sure I like your attitude toward my patients, Prime. If you're planning on trying to take down Starscream-"

"No one touches Starscream unless he engages in hostilities first. Prowl, I want you and Bumblebee to start looking for Barricade. Your first priority is to capture whatever minion of Soundwave's came here with Long Haul- and Frenzy if he is still active. _Alive._ Jazz, get the protection for the humans' computer network back up. Ironhide, I need to talk to you in private. Everyone else, get moving. I'll be with you shortly," he nodded at Ratchet, who stalked off with a huff.

A small pinging sound was heard as something tapped on Optimus's calf, "Excuse me, could I ask what's going on? Why was the Decepticon allowed to intrude on this facility, and why are we still alive? I thought they were supposed to be evil." Secretary Hewitt's worried frown was mirrored on many faces throughout the room.

Optimus bent and craned his neck to address her below him, "Generally speaking, they are. But something very wrong is happening on Cybertron, and Starscream, I think, has grasped the direness of the situation. I believe finding out what the other members of his faction have planned and foiling them will supersede carrying on the war in his priorities, at least for the time being. He is in as much danger as we are right now. When you spend as long fighting each other as we have, you each learn some things about your enemy. His intentions were clear when he followed me here rather than attacking me when I was alone. Please do not panic on his account; he is not currently a major threat."

The small woman gave him a hard look. "I've had Melvin and John yelling at me over the phone for the past half hour and every military establishment in the country is on high alert. I'm going to choose to trust you on this, but if anything changes I expect you to tell me _immediately,_ not after he stops by to chat."

"Of course. I would not want to overstep the bounds of your hospitality; if I had had any inkling he would actually try to come _in, _I would have said something."

"Good. I'm going to go get the old coots to shut up and see if I can have that 'shoot first' order taken off the lone, unidentified F-22 for the time being."

"That would be appreciated," Optimus replied, causing her to pause mid-step, "Humans would usually be beneath Decepticon concern, but if your military fires on him he will retaliate, regardless of his dealings with the Autobots. At which point it would be unethical to offer any measure of tolerance toward his presence."

"…which could lose you a potential ally on Earth."

"And in space. He is currently the only Cybertronian on this planet who can leave the atmosphere, and thus the only one capable of counteracting Soundwave's plan, whether or not he will cooperate with us."

"I'll see what I can do." And she walked away. "Show's over everyone. Get back to work. I want a full status report on my desk, ASAP!"

Ironhide grumbled and stood very still as the humans present scurried around madly, so as not to crush anyone. When he glanced up to wait for instructions from his commander, he found Optimus fixing him with pained optics and, after checking for organic obstacles, waving for the shorter mech to follow him to the NBE01 hangar.

The workers had left with the rest of the panicked mob and the room was silent. The desk on the scaffold was empty with papers strewn across it, and tools and materials were scattered about as if their owners had simply vanished into nothing. A can of paint had been knocked over on one of the upper platforms ringing the walls; every few seconds a drop of bright blue would plunge to the floor far below, splattering into an already considerable puddle.

Optimus stopped to stare at the puddle for a moment before turning to face Ironhide. His mask was withdrawn, his mouth pressed into a tight line and his eyes betraying a twinge of discomfort as he glanced from the pool of paint to his weapons officer.

Disliking the expression, Ironhide bristled uneasily. "Out with it, Prime. What is it you need me to do?"

His oldest friend winced and shook his head, "I don't need you to do anything right now, Ironhide. I'm afraid that Starscream brought us some bad news."

The weapons specialist snorted, "Of course he did. I've never heard any good news involving that fragger Soundwave, and I'm beginning to think I never will." He frowned in worry when Optimus's gaze dropped for a moment. "Is it about Magnus? He was always a good bot, one of my best trainees-"

"Ironhide." He suddenly found a hand pressing down on his armored shoulder, and his stare met by a pair of optics bright with sadness. "It's not Ultra Magnus. It's Chromia."

His spark froze in his chest, and his caged optics narrowed to slivers, "How? How could anyone possibly believe she was dead? She's better in a figh-"

"_Ironhide._ It was Confirmed according to Decepticon protocol; Skywarp and Thundercracker reported so directly to Starscream. He had no reason to lie about a detail like that. And considering that they lived to make their report, and that this happened previous to their alignment with Soundwave, they were unlikely to have been lying to their Air commander. It is a distinct possibility that she is really gone."

He shoved the hand off his shoulder and looked away, unable to meet the sympathetic gaze. "What do you know?" he snarled, finding himself staring fixedly at the dripping paint.

"She was on some kind of patrol with Arcee and they ended up taking on Skywarp and Thundercracker in the ancient underground network, under the ruins of Iacon. Skywarp got lucky using his teleportation, and the Seekers were able to overcome the pair even in the tunnels. Both Chromia and Arcee were both confirmed terminated. Starscream didn't mention Thundercracker being killed, so I can only assume that both Seekers survived. That is all I know."

A low growl rose in Ironhide's voice modulator. It spread to his internals and his clenched joints and soon the mech's whole body was shaking. His hydraulics hissed as they were compressed, and every sound that issued from him as he stared with wide, white optics at the spreading puddle of blue paint contributed to his snarl, "Permission to track down the _Air Commander _and extract more information from him on the subject?"

"Ironhide..."

Nothing.

"Look at me, Ironhide."

A quiver of barely-suppressed rage.

"Ironhide, _look at me."_ The dark mech's gaze jerked up to scowl at his tall friend. "I know you are angry and upset, but Starscream did not kill Chromia. If you can promise me that you will _not _instigate hostilities with him in any way, you may go and try to contact him. Otherwise, I will have to confine you here."

"So what if he didn't? He's one of them and he would've. If I have to shoot the slagger down and-"

"_Ironhide!_ Right now Starscream is one of our best sources as to what is happening on Cybertron. He is the _only _one who could do anything to stop Soundwave and Shockwave from here. You are an Autobot. Can you honestly say that taking out your anger on Starscream is worth the lives of everyone else we left behind?"

Ironhide's optics closed and he shuddered in conflict, clenching his fists. His cannons whined and he shoved one into Optimus's chest, raising the other close enough to illuminate his face with a red glow. The taller mech remained still.

"Chromia means more to me than a lot of things, Prime, and I'm not ashamed to say that includes Cybertron. Might even include you an' everyone else, but I'm not about to run that one through the CPU to find out. I'll leave the flying fragger alone, but because I refuse to believe she's dead until I have proof one way or the other. And when I get my sights on those glitches that got her, this is the last thing they'll ever see, and not you or any other bot in the universe is going to stop me from blowing them to the Pit."

He didn't give Optimus any more time to contemplate the barrel of his plasma cannon before he stomped out, slamming first one foot and then the other unnecessarily hard into the puddle, making it explode out in streaks of blue across the floor.

And suddenly it was not Chromia's forcibly emancipated energon anymore, but that of the Decepticons that killed her.

8888888888888

Sooo… here's to hoping that doesn't end badly. Because it's certainly not over.

Lobwedge is that golf-cart looking thingy that collects golf balls on a driving range. He'll collect them alright… and then he'll SHOOT THEM AT YOU! Run for your lives!

O.o


	50. Importance and Expendability

Holy crap. We're at 50 chapters, guys! That's freakin' awesome! That's like… 150 pages… and almost 350 reviews! At 500 reviews or 200 pages, (honestly, whichever is more convenient _and_ after finals) I shall post the sidefic: "The Popcorn Incident." Yay.

I meant this chapter and the next one to be together, but I didn't like the way the second part turned out so I'm going to fix it to my liking and post it later this week.

Nope. Still don't own Transformers.

Importance and Expendability

In all the commotion, Sarah Lennox had fled to anxiously comfort her daughter, upset by the angry three-story robots and Will's refusal to go with her. Unfortunately, she had found herself in a rather frightening room with _more _giant robots, though they looked like they were… asleep? Did robots sleep?

Not wanting to wake the pair of giants, she turned around and backtracked as quietly as she could. The giant 'lobby' was now swarmed with people and robots hurrying in different directions and, unable to see her husband in all of the chaos, she ducked into the first human-sized door she could get to.

Her first thought was _Great, another tunnel._ But at least there were no yelling robots.

This hallway, however, didn't go anywhere except for one small room. And this room was even worse than yelling robots. She immediately pressed her daughter's face into her sweater and choked back a startled scream as she turned back. There was no way she was staying anywhere that had claw marks and bullet holes in the solid steel walls.

_Claw _marks.

What could _do _that?

Sarah didn't want to know.

Finding the huge, central room of the complex relatively empty when she burst back out of the dimly-lit hallway, she decided she'd had enough of surprises and skirted the walls. Finding a quiet nook between two shipping containers, one on a trailer and the other covered in blue tarps, she sank to the floor against the wall and rubbed Anna's back soothingly. The poor girl's frightened sobbing eventually faded into tired hiccups.

She had no trouble sympathizing.

When the familiar impacts of jogging combat boots paused outside their little nook, she didn't even look up. She spoke only when the soldier crouched in front of her and threaded a comforting hand through her hair.

"I want to go home, Will."

Her husband sighed heavily and ran a hand through his own hair. "I know, sweetheart. But as long as Scorponok is still out there, it's not safe to go back."

"So it has a name too now? Why aren't _they _doing something to get rid of it? Or is that too much to ask?"

"Sarah," his tone was infuriatingly even. How could he not be upset? "I know it's hard, but you've got to try to understand. We don't even know where Scorponok _is, _much less how to track him underground in all this desert. This is the safest place for us to be until something gets figured out. And the Autobots have problems of their own right now. We've just got to be patient."

The blonde woman glared up at her husband, "Is it now. Well I don't care, Will. This is no place for Anna. What if Optimus had fought that jet thing? We would have been killed even if neither one of them so much as _looked _at us. Humans don't belong around giant killing machines." Her look was definitely accusatory.

"Those 'giant killing machines' have saved our lives more times than I can attach a number to at this point and they've got two guys injured right now. And while they're here protecting us, the Decepticons are plotting something that, from what I can tell, has everyone left on their home planet in serious trouble. There's an evil police cruiser and two smaller guys out there that have something to do with it; Starscream and Scorponok have their own agendas as far as we know. We just need to stay here until they get everything else sorted out and they'll do what they can to get us home, I promise."

"Glad to know who's side you're on," Sarah muttered unhappily.

Wincing, Will stood up and offered her a hand. "You know that's not true. Come on," he said as he helped her to her feet, "Let's go find Ironhide or Optimus right now and see what's going on. Maybe they can spare someone to help us out so Scorponok doesn't pop up and bite one of them in the aft down the road." His wife looked at him quizzically.

"_Aft?"_

Wincing yet again, the captain shrugged, "When you spend a lot of time with Ironhide, his vocabulary starts rubbing off on you."

Before she could voice her disapproval, the subject of their conversation could be heard and seen stomping out of the mouth of the tunnel on the other side of enormous room. Sarah thrust their dozing daughter into her husband's arms and started moving to intercept the black and silver behemoth. Will caught her wrist in a tight grip before she went three steps.

"Hold it," his face creased into a deep frown, "something's wrong."

Not sure how he could tell the emotional state of a robot, she looked a bit more closely at their former truck. When it's- _his, _she corrected herself a bit testily- feet crashed to a halt upon entering the better lighting, his whole frame compressed visibly- and audibly- as he leaned on one hand against the wall and looked around. The air around him rippled with waves of hot air.

Then he spotted them.

Any and all ambitions to give the alien robot a piece of her mind were put on hold when he fixed them with that look. And, if her husband's hand weren't clamped firmly around her wrist, she probably would have started backing away as he slowly moved towards them.

As he got closer she could tell that each step, which he pressed onto the floor with a deliberate creak of strained metal, was punctuated with a blast of hot air from somewhere under his shoulders. At about ten paces she could hear a harsh rumble like an engine revving too high for its gear. At ten feet there was a series of squeals from the metal fists he was clenching too tightly. And then he just stopped.

And stared down at them with bright white eyes.

Hadn't they been blue?

It was her husband who made the first move. "Ironhide? What's going on? What's wrong...?" For once he seemed unsure about this whole alien robot business.

"Captain Lennox." The robot ground out. The sound wasn't overly loud, but it sounded like the moan of bending steel, "Mrs. Lennox." He shifted his weight and stared for a few moments more, "I am going to find Starscream." He paused again.

"Now? Alright, just let me go get my gear. Hey, I was wondering-"

"_No."_

When the robot didn't elaborate, Will's frown deepened. "What?"

A wordless grumble issued from the giant robot, then, "I will go alone."

"Ironhide, we've been over this." Will gave him a frustrated glare.

"He has information I alone need. Your presence is neither required nor welcome."

"But you _agreed_ that if you're going to do something reckless, it would be better to take me along so I can explain-"

"_**Reckless?"**_Sarah could feel the floor tremble under the low rumble that shook the robot's whole body, "Tackling the Seeker to protect your female and offspring was _reckless_. Finding out if and why Chromia is dead is justice."

Fed up with men, robot-kind, and the situation in general, Sarah retaliated, "And how is _that _justice for your friend? Going out there alone while you're all worked up is only going to get you killed by that angry jet thing. And who will that help? No one! I just hope you're as expendable to everyone else as you are to yourself with that kind of attitude," she snapped up at the rumbling mech.

Ironhide stretched himself out to his full height and bulk, puffing air out of his vents every few seconds as he bent lower, intent on provoking a yelling match for the ages-

And then he stopped. Straightened. And grimaced down at her, now staring up at him from behind her defensive mate with her offspring back in her arms.

"You are lucky, Sarah Lennox, to be paired with someone who has been able to return to you and protect you from harm. I _will_ go alone," he resolved, and cut off any protests on the matter. "And I will return _intact, _Captain Lennox. If this is the wrath I receive among the functional, I would hate to find what would await me in the Matrix." He turned and slowly trudged away, muttering loud enough for them to hear, "Primus knows they all agree with each other…"

888888888888

You may remember the title of this one from the Chapter of Unholy Vague back in the day. I thought this situation might exemplify what I meant by that if you squint.

My room is really cold. But I know that if I turn the heat on, I will die of an allergy attack. So I'll freeze until finals are over. So I'm kinda jealous of Heatwave, the dish-type space-heater who will roast you alive. He is the seventh to join Soundwave, Shockwave, Airwave, Tidal Wave, Waverider, and Lightwave (mine) in the prestigious wave-related line of mechs. I don't count Wingwaver because a) I don't remember him at all and b) 'waving' is a verb distinct from the noun 'wave.' I'm a nit-picker that way.

As always, please share your thoughts! Alas, for I cannot read them with my mind. Except on Tuesdays.


	51. When Misfortune Sleeps

Here's a little chapter to tide all of us through finals. I just have to survive until Saturday, I just have to survive until Saturday, I just have to survive until Saturday…

I'll keep telling myself that. Responses later when I'm not dying of termpaperitis.

Meanwhile, I still love my Transformers and don't own my reviewers… or was that 'I still love my reviewers and don't own Transformers...?'

When Misfortune Sleeps

When Sideswipe came to, it was to a sound he'd honestly never thought he would hear ever again since the Autobots divided themselves throughout space. It was rhythmic and, to his audios at least, comforting. He always seemed to be looking forward to it, with its impressive frequency range and intellectually stimulating creativity. He found himself attached to no one and nothing besides his brother and this sound, declaring only to himself that wherever both could be found, he would be home. It reminded him of what it meant to be alive. Finding himself once again subjected to the familiar crescendo, his face split into a manic grin even before his optics came online.

_This has _got _to be the best sound in the universe._

"**-and mind you the **_**only **_**reason I didn't leave you that way **_**until the Pit overflows **_**is because you slag-sucking glitch-heads have gotten yourselves into some nonsense Prime thinks he needs to know about! Frag me for wasting **_**my **_**precious time repairing your trouble-chromed bearings over and over! I really **_**must**_** be glitching something awful- yes, that would explain it; best get my sanity algorithms checked out. But if you **_**ever **_**do anything as completely fragged as engaging a battle cruiser alone- no, if you ever do **_**anything**_** ever again, yes, I like that- if you even so much as **_**twitch **_**in the **_**direction **_**of a Decepticon- no, **_**anything **_**dangerous, Wheeljack and small sparklings included- SO HELP ME PRIMUS I WILL WELD YOU BOTH TO THE AFT OF THE DESTROYER HIMSELF! **_**BY YOUR FACES!**_**"**

Ah, the sweet lullaby of home.

The continuous barrage of Hatcheting might have been enough to lull him back into recharge if it weren't for the yellow elbow planted firmly in his aching midsection.

"Wake up, slag-face. Ratchet's got his sockets in a lock."

"You mean we really are alive? Awesome! Let's ditch this place and part_ay_!" A wrench clanged off his cranial armor, "Hey Ratch, you must be down on your game. Too rusty to just throw 'em anymore?" he grinned cheekily at the scowling medic.

"No, but my supplies are limited and this will have to do to beat some sense into your lousy processors for now. And there will be _no _partying for you or your brother. You're too badly damaged. And besides," the medic's scowl twisted into something disturbingly like a satisfied sneer, "the other senior staff and I confiscated your stash. Into our fuel tanks!" And at the looks he received he burst into evil laughter.

"Noooooooooo! You monster! How could you???" Sideswipe screamed in horror, barely aware of his brother growling and cursing angrily, disappointed to find his motor functions still limited. And then it occurred to him.

And he froze. "By senior staff you mean…"

Ratchet frowned at the red twin, worried at the uncharacteristic worry and seriousness that pinched the warrior's faceplates as he struggled to sit up. "Jazz, Ironhide, Prowl, and myself, why? And you shouldn't move yet. Primus knows your armor will fall off if you put too much stress on it right now."

Sunstreaker stopped and stared a his twin and muttered, "Frag. _All _of it?" His optics started roaming the room, searching for Ratchet knew not what.

"Every last cube. What are you two up to?" The lack of screaming and flailing had drained all of the amusement out of the medic and the tall mech who had at some point appeared behind him, making himself known with a- …what _was_ that sound anyway?- in the doorway. Sounded like a handful of hard mineral aggregate in a turbine.

Just as Sideswipe flopped back down on his back with a groan of irritation, his brother exclaimed, "Sides, that's it! The fragging thing is right over there!"

Following the twitch of Sunstreaker's head, he made an inglorious roll to flop onto the floor and worm his way over to the sealed medical cube sitting innocently in the corner with several of its fellows. This one was slightly more battered and bore no insignia, where the others all boasted the Decepticon mark. Otherwise they were identical.

Despite the medic's protests and those of his healing upper body- he could _feel _the welded seams cracking as he floundered around the other table- he refused to stop. Triumphantly propping himself against the wall, he grabbed the cube and, ignoring an angry squawk from Ratchet, he applied all the strength of his massive hands to tear the top clean off. A tiny alarm sounded and petered off in despair, shooting a few farewell sparks as the red mech rummaged through its contents.

Soon cubes of weakly glowing medical energon littered the floor, and Sideswipe crowed in triumph, "AHA! Got you, you crazy little fragger. I knew something as awesome as you wouldn't end up in the hands of rusty old wrecks like them. You're gonna go to a good home and have lots of fun and maybe he'll share a little-"

Optimus bent down to speak quietly in Ratchet's audio. "Is he… _talking _to the energon?"

All the medic could do was nod and stand numbly to watch as his commander skirted around his immobile form to loom over the babbling mech.

"Sides!" the yellow twin barked.

"Huh?" He looked up and found Optimus Prime bending over him looking concerned, "Oh." Stroking whatever he was holding a few times before sighing and offering it to the mech above him, he sadly scooted away. The sound of his armor scraping the floor and the large metal table as he flopped back onto it were the only sounds in the room.

Optimus held the cube in his hand and rotate it slowly as he intently examined it. It was of standard size and clearly contained energon, but its bright radiance cast little rainbows all about the room. It obviously wasn't the even blue glow of medical-grade energon.

The silent mech broke out of his stunned state, "This is…" he turned inquiring but hesitant optics on the two pairs looking up at him. Sideswipe was thoroughly transfixed by the brilliant colors of the little cube, but Sunstreaker's bold gaze met his. Yellow shoulders twitched in a nonchalant shrug.

"He just said to tell you not to drink it alone."

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Oooooookay, I just wanted to get some twins fun in, but I guess my plot jumped in there a little anyway. There will be fun when I get some seriousness out of the way.

The saying goes "When misfortune sleeps, let no one wake her." And also let no one wake Locomotor, that Christmas train that goes round and round in the middle of the mall carrying small children through cotton snow. He's really disgruntled about the nature of his work.

See you when I find my way out of my pile of books and papers…


	52. A Voice from a Distant Star

You may be wondering why this is such a (shame!) short chapter. I assure you that it's only because I'm doing something fun with the next chapter, and couldn't have this bit clinging to the beginning. If I feel like procrastinating I may post more tonight; if not, sometime Wednesday or Thursday is likely.

One more paper guys. One more paper and an exam and then I'm DONE! Then you only have to share me with my family until January. IonlyhavetosurviveuntilSaturday IonlyhavetosurviveuntilSaturday IonlyhavetosurviveuntilSaturday.

I od ton won Rantsmorfers. I do ont now Tnartsfromser? I DO NOT OWN TRANSFORMERS!

But I _am_ going nuts and I may _think_ I do when I finally crack.

A Voice from a Distant Star

"_He just said to tell you not to drink it alone."_

Optimus sighed and addressed Sunstreaker, "He sent no other message?"

"This is Mr. High-and-mighty City Administrator himself we're talking about. Of course he sent one. But, duh, we don't know what it says. You wouldn't _believe _the size of the file- nearly crashed my CPU even split between the two of us! And it must be at least quadruple encrypted; Sides and I couldn't get it open no matter what we tried," the yellow and black bot scowled.

"Fine. Just launch it and we'll see what he has to say."

Sunstreaker nodded and worked himself into a sitting position, then cocked his head to the side, waiting.

And waiting.

And since he wasn't particularly fond of or good at waiting, he opted to elbow his twin in the abdominal plates again, "Snap out of it, bit brain. The boss wants the goods from Big Blue. _Sides!"_ A _clang! _echoed through the room when he rapped sharply on Sideswipe's head.

"What the frag?! Oh. Right…" Sideswipe lurched upright on the table and joined his brother in sitting stock still. "Okay… so the access code is the response to a prompt… but I think there's something wrong with it… he might not've used English right…"

"Just play it, Sideswipe."

"You asked for it. '_How many faces does Primus have?'" _a deep voice murmured from Sideswipe's vocalizer.

The Autobot leader thought only for a moment before rumbling in reply, "Too few."

Everything around them shimmered out of existence, replaced with gleaming metal walls and, standing at a massive computer console, a large blue and silver mech.

"Too few indeed…" The mech keyed something into his console before straightening up and facing them, "It has been too long, Optimus Prime, sir. I only wish I could grace you with good news, as you have done for us," he paused, regret tightening his features.

Seeing his young, eager friend looking so stern and weary, Optimus hissed uneasily. "Ultra Magnus…"

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See you after I collapse from exhaustion! I won't write until I'm coherent again…

Unlike Typefacer, the evil electric typewriter my mom still has lurking in the basement. It's been biding its time for decades, waiting for its revenge over being forced to produce my parents' three theses… in engineering, chemistry, and business! The horror! RUN BEFORE IT EATS US ALL ALIVE! I can hear it plotting…

Meep! O.O


	53. Faces of Primus

Yeah procrastination. Take this!

I still don't own Transformers.

Faces of Primus

"How many faces does Primus have?" As Magnus recorded the question, the memory of a certain drunken conversation was brought to mind, momentarily reviving the dull ghost of a smile on his faceplates. He had been so naïve then, wallowing in eagerness and doubt. The awe of having gotten completely sloshed in a cargo hold with the Supreme Commander- the Templar, even!- after the grisly battles of Hydra Tesseron had not quite worn off, even after millennia of friendship. He wondered what would have become of him if he hadn't been discovered and treated to an inspiring account of Cybertron's glorious past and the meaning of what it meant to be an Autobot. He probably wouldn't be where he was now. It mattered not, he supposed; but he was sure Optimus would remember and come to the same answer to the tragic riddle that he had.

"Too few indeed…" he muttered bitterly as he started the recording. Collecting himself and schooling his features, he stood and turned to face his commander. "It has been too long, Optimus Prime, sir. I only wish I could grace you with good news, as you have done for us." He wished it with all his aching spark.

"I have received your message, and am relieved to hear that you have found another planet to call home. I send this message in the language you specified in the hope that someday the natives of this 'Earth' will know what has befallen Cybertron, and welcome you among them."

As he spoke, he brought up illustrative holographic images with his computer console. "Several energon mining clusters have been reopened. We tracked substantial shipments from the asteroid belt to the ruins of Iacon. When I sent Mirage to discover what they were for, he reported activity in the deep underground sectors. After an intensive investigation, it appears that Decepticons under the command of Shockwave have been building a large device into the planet's substructure, possibly an explosive. Wheeljack estimates that that much energon detonated at such a depth under the expansion fault there would rip the mantle of Cybertron open and destabilize our solar orbit." Magnus couldn't look at the all-too-familiar projection of his dying planet and sun again, instead locking his optics on the floor. He knew they must be bright with grief, and hoped that his shades obscured it well enough. "We have received no threats as of yet, but the Decepticons not guarding the area are definitely withdrawing from the planet and gathering on Cyber Trion, possibly under Soundwave. Their motives are unclear; they may simply wish to remove the war to Earth and destroy us by sending Cybertron into the sun, likely causing both to explode. We lack both the numbers and the resources to mount an attack on the weapon. There is little we can do but wait."

"I have designated the Cybersol system a Class Omega danger zone. All Autobots in space have been rerouted to your position, and those remaining here are working around the clock to organize an evacuation of all possible personnel and supplies. Enclosed with this message is a copy of the core library, official reports since your departure, and a tentative estimate of what you will receive when," he frowned deeply and shifted his stance, clasping his hands behind him.

"I have called in Prowl's unit as the last authorized entry into Cybertronian space to convey this message, though only the twins have responded. In light of this I find some information too sensitive to include, but I feel that certain 'deliveries' warrant fair warning. You must remember our argument in the engine core while we were docked in Novurbix?" Sardonic amusement crossed his features, "I must finally concede the point, it seems. Your insistence in the matter has made all the difference to the efforts here. We are almost ready to finish the evacuation."

He relaxed slightly, gaze cast downward, "That concludes my official business in this message. On a less pressing note, there have been developments I feel you should hear about from me firsthand. I have been gathering all of the personal messages for your team and other spacefarers that I could manage discreetly, but I warn you that some of them may now be post-mortem. Arcee and Chromia went on an unauthorized rescue mission some weeks ago; you will find the record and their note enclosed. They claimed to have caught an S.O.S. in the vicinity of Iacon during an expansion tremor and have not been heard from since. I deeply regret to report that efforts to recover them have failed due to the concentrated protection of the Decepticon weapon. We don't know if it was a trap or if the Decepticons were even operating in the area that far back, but there may be a connection."

"Also, we have recovered an additional survivor from Tyger Pax, and thus discovered the leak of the Allspark's trajectory to Megatron." Magnus looked up, face set angrily, "It's Blaster. He's a mess, sir; it's worse than anything I've seen since the Gestalt Wars, and harder to fix. We've been doing what we can to help him, but we have no fully-qualified medics here, and even our best scanners can't give a complete diagnosis. Perceptor insists that it isn't Soundwave's work, or anything that he recognizes as Decepticon procedure. I have sent Blaster ahead in the hope that Ratchet can do something for him." He sincerely hoped he had not condemned the friendly bot to death over the long flight, but he would likely die anyway if he stayed on Cybertron. _If he doesn't go insane first, _Magnus shuddered.

"You will have noticed by now that the twins brought you more than high-grade, I hope. I apologize for the extra luggage, but it can't be helped. I have no time to visit the launch station, even if I could match their speed. They will just have to take both; you can reformat mine for someone else when it arrives. I'll not be needing it. And I do apologize for re-distributing and returning a gift as precious as your Iridion; but an old-standard cube was too difficult to pack and I did not want anything unfortunate to befall it in transit. When it reaches you, however, be sure that you find yourself with _two _cubes. It would be unfortunate indeed if Sideswipe were to… _swipe _any." The corner of the large mech's mouth quirked a little in the first genuine humor it had expressed in a while, imagining the embarrassed squirms of the accused. "A convenient convention of this new language; I could grow to like it for that alone."

He stepped forward and faced the spot where he knew his commander would be standing, optic-to-optic hundreds of light years away. "Regrettably, my spark belongs here on Cybertron, my home; and my arrival will likely be too late to join you in that toast to the end of the war. I'm afraid you must find yourself a more faithful drinking partner for the occasion. It has been an honor serving under your leadership, Optimus Prime, and in the company of all Autobots." He bowed respectfully and backed away to the computer console.

"I am Ultra Magnus, and this is my final report as the leader of the Cybertronian front of the war between the Autobots and the Decepticons. May Primus's guardianship extend to our new home called Earth, and may the Universe never forget the planet called Cybertron, or its legacy," his hand moved to cover the controls.

"For I have failed. Cybertron is lost."

He stopped the recording and hung his head, suddenly feeling dwarfed by this office like he used to when he was younger. On a fierce, sudden whim he brought up a command that had long been pending authorization and keyed in his security code. He could have sworn he heard a surprised yelp outside the door as the screen there altered to display his own designation.

Bluestreak would have to find some way to cope with the change. If this were still Optimus Prime's office, Cybertron might have been saved. His failure was his own.

But Primus would only lose one more face because of him.

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Oh Magnus. I really do love him.

FIRE ALARM!

I hate those. My commons is five dorms and a dining hall all in one building, so the thing is constantly going off every time one person fails their microwave Skill Check. I want to start a mandatory orientation workshop on correct microwave use. My roommate last year-

FIRE ALARM!

Oooooooooh, I'm going to kill something if that doesn't stop. It's cold out there. So my roommate last year came to school microwave-stupid and nuked a party plate with metallic lettering. And a few weeks later: a fork. And during Spring finals: her cell phone. It freaking escalated as I explained more to her!

But I really do love Ultra Magnus. He's so cool. He wears sunglasses!

BTW…sorry, bud. I think I just owned you.

Memo-Rex is the digital picture frame of death, and he'll own you too. His perfect recollection of your warmest, fuzziest memories will melt you into a blubbering pile of sap.

Feel free to take pot-shots at the symbolism fairy.


	54. Reasons to be Scared Pantsless

In an unprecedented display of procrastination, I give unto you this final chapter before diving headlong into the completion of my gender studies paper. But I seriously needed a break from matters not pertaining to giant robots.

Especially giant robots I don't own. Transformers isn't mine.

Reasons to Be Scared Pantsless

When Optimus Prime held out an expectant hand, Sideswipe sheepishly placed a second iridescent cube upon its palm, gaping like a landed fish. "They're coming here… they're _all _coming here… That's good right? I mean, Cybertron was dead anyway, and we get to see everyone again!"

_CLANG!_

"Don't be an idiot. Cybertron and the sun may or may not _explode _at any time, and the evacuees will have to get past the explosion radius and the gathering Decepticon forces before they get here. They have no choice, but we will be lucky if even a few make it through the right space bridges," Ratchet chastised the happy twin.

"Fine, be that way!" Sunstreaker snapped, "But at least we _might _get some reinforcements. Primus, he could have _said _something while we were there. I would have slagged those fraggers so badly you wouldn't be able to tell their afts from their heads!"

Silently regarding the two small cubes glittering in his palm, Optimus ignored the routine bickering and left.

At the other end of the huge hallway was a small gaggle of humans he had grown to like very much. Mikaela was trying to drag Sam after her, and he was putting up quite a fight on the grounds that Ratchet had been behaving rather fearsomely since the colorful new arrivals. The Lennox couple stood at a safe distance and looked on. The captain was trying to hide a smirk of amusement as his wife shot him a deadly look. Little Annabelle was giggling at them in her father's arms. Noticing the giant robot coming their way, her head dropped back to stare straight up at him, pointing excitedly with her mouth agape, tugging on her daddy's shirt to get his attention.

"Dada, Oppy-miss! Lookie!"

"Yes, Anna, that's very nice. Say hello to Optimus."

"Hay Opty-miss!"

The plates framing his optics crinkled. She was learning to say his name. "Hello, little one. What brings all of you over here?"

An exasperated Sam Witwicky jumped in, tone laced with desperation, "Optimus, please, you have _got _to tell her what a bad idea it is to go in there. Ratchet is _crazy _around those twin guys!"

"Indeed, Mikaela, it would be un-"

He was cut off by a loud _YELP!_ Nearby.

"Hey, why've you always got to sneak up on _me, _man?! Go scare the pants off someone else!"

The human identified as Air Force Sergeant Epps hurried toward them and deposited a pink sippy cup in the waiting hand of his Army Ranger friend.

Odd, his pants currently appeared to be in their proper place.

But he was eyeing the casually-approaching Jazz with a certain wariness Optimus was familiar with, and he sighed heavily through his exhaust vents. Spies, trained as they were in stealth, were difficult to keep track of. And, also trained in destroying evidence of their exploits, they were equally hard to convict of wrongdoing. Throw in a case of slick-as -lubricant charm, and it was useless to try instilling any discipline on the saboteur but his own. His half-hearted glare awarded him an innocent grin and a shrug.

Luckily the human did not seem too distressed and immediately clapped a hand on Sam's shoulder to strike up a conversation, "Hey, kid, been a while. Hope you're not playin' hooky to mess with alien robots."

"Nah, finals are over, so there's no point in going anyway. Graduation's next week, and then we're _free!"_

Optimus re-modulated his vocal processor to imitate the human sound to attract attention. He was getting quite good at it, if he was any judge. "I beg your pardon, but I am in something of a hurry. Ratchet will probably sedate one or both of the twins shortly, at which point it will be safe for you, Sam and Mikaela, to visit him. Jazz, I would like you to download Magnus's message from them before he does. It is split between them and maximum encrypted; I trust you will not be needing my authorization anyway?"

"Dude, that's what I _do. _It'll be like taking a supply manifesto from the _Nemesis _mainframe. Easy as pie."

"…Good. Then you will not mind converting the holographic portion of the message into a format compatible with human technology, and being put in charge of mail distribution as well. Since I have failed to give you a challenge."

"You think you're funny, Optimus, but the Jazz-master can do anything," the silver bot saluted and spun into a moonwalk. "Yo Epps, you got an iPod?"

"Of course I've got one." He retrieved the small black and chrome device from one of his hundreds of pockets and waived it in front of the robot.

"Cool. C'mon, I'll give you some MP4s like you never seen before." He continued to moonwalk down the tunnel with the puzzled human jogging after him.

"Come on, Sam! If they can go, so can we!" And said teenage boy found himself yanked after his enthusiastic girlfriend into the medic's lair.

Optimus sagged visibly on his struts as they all disappeared into the den of cursing and throwing things. Primus, where did they get that kind of energy?

"Kids. Someday they'll wake up and feel old, and I intend to laugh at them," William Lennox mused.

"Indeed. But considering Jazz is one of the oldest of us and still behaves that way, I'm beginning to wonder if I will ever have that satisfaction. Did you three need something I can help you with?" He assumed his more and more familiar crouch to speak with the couple and child. Making sure her parent's weren't looking, Anna covered her face, then uncovered it and flashed a grin. It made the old bot smile warmly.

"Well, Ironhide stomped off to find Starscream… and he looked pretty upset. We were hoping to find out if anyone could tell us who this 'Chromia' person is. Or was. And if there's anything we can do to help." His wife glared at him something fierce, "…and we were also wondering if anything can be done about a certain mechanical scorpion…"

"You are referring to Scorponok? Of course, he poses a threat to your family unit." The large robot paused in thought. "He is quite elusive, but essentially a very simple creature. We believe he is still following the final command given to him by Blackout. If we knew what that was, we might be able to lure him out. Unfortunately, it may be that he was ordered to terminate any remaining witnesses of Blackout's attack, and it would be extremely dangerous to use humans as bait."

"What about the infrared imager? Epps is convinced that Blackout saw him take that picture of him."

The Autobot leader blinked in surprise, "A recording device? That may well be his primary objective. It would be odd for Decepticons to pay such heed to a few organics. If you can find that particular device and have it brought here, I will attempt to have Scorponok dealt with as soon as I return."

"See, Sweetheart? We're right up there on the to-do list." He winked up at Optimus as Sarah Lennox rolled her eyes. "Where are you going? Will you need backup?"

Optimus shook his head and stood. "I am merely going to retrieve my weapons specialist, and to speak with Starscream if I can. It seems things are worse than I feared. Cybertron has been deemed a total loss, and I will need both of them to listen to what I have to say if we are to save the rest of my people. If you wish to know about Chromia," he paused as he started to walk away, "You might want to ask Ratchet. He has known them both for quite some time."

When he reached his gleaming silver trailer, he opened a storage compartment on the side. Reverently placing his two geometric charges inside and closing it up, he locked the trailer's functions with maximum clearance protocols.

As he left the insularity of the dam, it occurred to Optimus Prime that in the span of an hour he had forced Ratchet to deal with four demanding Autobots, three confused humans, two excitable teenagers, and one very small child. He then proceeded to transform and leave the vicinity as quickly as he could.

And, based on Sergeant Epps's comment, he deemed it a matter of good fortune that Cybertronians do not wear pants.

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Yeah, you'd better run! Ratchet's scary.

Remember those big motorized Swiss Army Knife window displays? Meet Svemesser; he slices, he dices, he opens cans, and pops corks! He's a multi-purpose killing machine!

I have a fabulous idea for a super-crack chapter down the line. Waaaaaaaaaay down the line. But for now, I could use some thoughts. If you produce thoughts, this may apply to you. What would everyone like to see next? There are going to be a few different events happening simultaneously, and I'll turn them out in any order I feel like. But if you want me to feel a certain way… I might be persuaded.

Basic recap: Bumblebee and Prowl are looking for Barricade, Ironhide is trying to get Starscream to talk to him, Ratchet is playing the angry go-to guy this round, Jazz is always up to something, Optimus is trying to get everyone to get along and save the universe, and the various humans are trying to get a handle on what the heck is going on. There's some sneaking, yelling, warm-fuzzies, beatdown, blowup, good intentions, bad attitude, common sense, desperate measures, and mysterious forces at work, in no particular relative order.

If there are any characters or descriptive nouns in that list that you're in the mood for at this point in the story, cool. Send a review my way. If not, review anyway, sit back, and enjoy what I'm going throw at you. It'll all get done either way.

Christmas break is going to be most excellent, folks.


	55. Play Musical Cars

Guys. I haven't updated in… OVER A MONTH! But you knew that. I offer my humble apologies.

Christmas was way out of control. I spent most of the time working and decorating and running around the Northeast like a licensed maniac. It was good, but I'm glad it's over. And now I'm doing J-term, my college's mini-semester: one month of one class. Mine is a film course, so I have to learn to make movies. Optimus cameos, I promise. I'm also teaching a costume-building workshop on sewing, armor, props, wigs, makeup, and fine detail. It is a LOT of work. Rewarding, but I haven't had time to write in a while. Though I have put to pen the beginning of a fun new crack chapter for later.

I can now be found, read, and otherwise stalked on **DeviantArt** as **OblivionMasquerade**. I've been breaking down my sketchbooks, scanning, and posting my old artwork, very little of which has anything to do with Transformers so far, so don't be alarmed. An epic doodle of the chapter "Reach for the Star" is in my scraps and my iPod renderings and Transmission Breakdown book cover are in my gallery if you want to go look. And maybe leave a rev- I mean, a _comment._

Speaking of which, thanks for reading and responding! We've broken four hundred reviews and 55 chapters! That's so awesome!

I still don't own Transformers, even after a solid month not writing.

Play Musical Cars

Anyone on the road that fine day would have turned their head to ogle the flashy yellow Camaro and the spotless new police Charger gliding up the highway. They wove in unison through traffic, clearly sharing some sort of purpose. What that purpose was, none could tell, and the populace was left to wonder at the sexy sports car and the serious horsepower of the law following it across the Golden State.

Outwardly, Prowl was certain he seemed focused on his mission and mildly irritated with the yellow vehicle roaring up the highway in front of him with music blasting out his open windows. Inwardly, however, he allowed himself a few moments of quite the opposite.

It was a long time since he'd seen the young bot; things had gone especially sour after Tyger Pax. Bumblebee had shown immeasurable bravery faced with the cruelty of Megatron himself, and paid for it in kind. The grinding shrieks as he'd been retrieved still echoed through Prowl's processor.

And it had been for nothing. Megatron found the Allspark's trajectory anyway, somehow.

_I didn't tell him! It wasn't me! How the frag- HOW _THE FRAG _DID HE FIND OUT?! I NEVER TOLD HIM ANYTHING! _HE SHOULDN'T KNOW!

The last time Prowl had seen the little scout before the search scattered them across space he had been wild and furious, transmitting angrily on every frequency and warbling with disgust. Prowl had not heard Bumblebee curse before or since Megatron's flight plan was revealed to them. Primus, that was a long time ago.

"_Life is a highway! I wanna ride it all night long! If you're going my way, I wanna drive it all night long!"_

The Bumblebee racing along the arid stretch of alien road was very far indeed from the sweet, timid trainee who dropped something every time Optimus Prime entered his vicinity. Prowl thanked all forces at work that he was equally far from the betrayed, broken bot who had wordlessly demanded his chance to follow Megatron into the unknown arms of the galaxy. Seeing the yellow bumper speeding cheerfully but purposefully in front of him, he was instantly glad that his commander had insisted on Bumblebee's inclusion in his team.

Prowl let his engine rev a bit higher in amusement; it seemed the youngster- no no, Bumblebee was no longer a 'youngster.' That perception wouldn't do. It seemed the _valued soldier of considerable accomplishment_ had an impressive understanding of local cultural nuance, such as music. …Primus! He must be as old as Prowl had been when took on his first command…

_Life in the fast lane! Surely make you lose your mind… Life in the fast lane! Are you with me so far?_

Regardless, it felt good to have solid ground under his tires again and a youthful presence to share the road with. His own team had encountered no success such as Primes; not only in that they were following one of the false probable trajectories of the Allspark, which had been knocked off-course, but in that they had suffered a crushing defeat in the last star system they searched. With his eager young medic and scout dead and the twins severely injured, they had been forced to beat a long and difficult retreat to Cybertron, only to find out en-route that the Allspark was gone and that Jazz was dead. 

Prowl had failed. He failed his leader, his planet, his charges, and his friend. He'd ignored his logic centers and went on an impossible solo mission, hoping to make up for his mistakes.

_On the road again, goin' places I've never been; seein' things that I may never see again, and I can't wait to get on the road again…_

Interesting use of Willie Nelson… But this planet was an Autobot success story- thus far. One of few. Megatron was dead and the Allspark was completely eradicated with the revival of Jazz. The human race was still largely unaware of them, and they had found some valuable allies. Even Starscream had not been in a killing mood when he paid them a 'visit.' The humans had made the difference.

Bumblebee honked playfully at a school bus as he passed, the equally yellow vehicle full of human children with their faces pressed to the glass of the windows to gawk at him. Prowl found himself on the receiving end of gleeful pointing and shouting as well.

Optimus was right. Cybertron was lost, but the Autobots would defend this planet to the last.

To the delight of the humans, Bumblebee turned up the music for their enjoyment. _Well I'm not braggin' babe so don't put me down, but I've got the fastest set of wheels in town… _And with that the Camaro surged forward, causing quite a stir from the elementary schoolers.

That was something else to consider. They would have to tread warily here- literally and figuratively. If they weren't careful, their size, advancement, and success would cause the humans to fear them. That would be most unfortunate. First though, was the matter of Barricade and Soundwave's counterparts. Outnumbered and alone on this planet, they would be rather desperate for backup to arrive. They may not behave logically when located.

_We both popped the clutch when the light turned green; you shoulda heard the whine from my screamin' machine! I flew past LaBrea, Schwab's, and Crescent Heights; and all the Jag could see were my six tail lights!_

Prowl let a rush of air out of his muffler as he sped after his not-so-young-anymore companion and started computing a search pattern for the two of them to implement. They would start by trying to track Long Haul's passenger. Barricade could have gone anywhere since Mission City and scanned anything sufficiently similar to his last known alt mode, but the newcomer would make haste to Frenzy's location. Assuming he was still functional, which in this case would be optimal.

He had just settled into running the first few thousand sets of probabilities when a familiar pattern of movement behind him caught his attention.

"_Bumblebee, we're being followed. I am getting off at the next exit; you take the succeeding one and rendezvous with me in ten minutes. My anonymity may not yet be compromised; you will likely be the one followed. Use appropriate caution."_

"_Yes sir!" _The Camaro zigzagged a little in its lane and sped up a hair. Prowl smoothly glided off the highway toward the line of motels, gas stations, and restaurants, somehow both purposeful and nonchalant. He watched with satisfaction as his unwitting pursuer continued after Bumblebee.

Prowl did not fall into traps. He set them.

88888888mightyeightsreturnmuahahaha88888888

I counted the votes and The Adventures of Optimus Prime and the Plot tied The Adventures of Prowl and Bumblebee with three each. Sneaking, mysteriosity, and beatdown each got one vote for content.

So I wrote a Prowl-introspective setup chapter. O.o

I know, I know. We're getting there, development process and all that. But Adhesivator, the hot glue gun, is not. He really _is _stuck to the ceiling. Must've fragged Ratchet off.

So I haven't heard from anyone since anyone last heard from me. Soooooooo… drop a review!

Primus I've missed this stuff.


	56. You Didn't See Robots

So I've been horrible and terminally busy and I decided to write a chapter tonight. I wrote and wrote and wrote and procrastinated some stuff that's actually pretty important and this is what I came up with. Story of my life, right?

**w00twag0n: **Long time no speak, dude. Thanks for reading! Glad you like it. I hope life is treating you alright outside of the Transformers fanfiction department. Drop me a line once in a while, and keep reviewing. Then I may actually get around to finishing said Incident of Popped Maize.

**RachaelMNiner: **Welcome aboard the party wagon, and thanks again for all the reviews. I hope you'll stick around and continue to enjoy the read.

**teh: **Well I can't kill _everyone._ Ok, maybe I can, and maybe it seems like I've been working really hard to do so, but I won't. Lol, long story but my friends and I have been doing costuming recently and any time anyone burns themselves (which is frequently and usually with a glue gun) we yell "GUADO!" Long bizarre story with no point, but "Ow!" just got so boring…

Thanks for all the "welcome back"s and sorry for not updating soon. My life is like a Rubix Cube right now. I've got to take it apart and put it back together before it'll make any sense. I'm soooooooooooo busy… O,..,O

I have not managed to acquire the massive Transformers franchise or any parts thereof. I barely own my own brain most of the time.

You Didn't See Robots

The whole thing was a nightmare.

It could have been worse. She just had to keep telling herself that it could have been worse.

Unfortunately, it could have been a _lot_ worse. It _would _get a lot worse. Hell, of all the strange disasters she'd seen and heard about since she was introduced to her first giant alien robot, this one screamed nice words like "_tame" _and "_normal."_

But _slag _-pardon-my-Cybertronian- the magnitude of worse-ness it could have been… what the hell had she gotten herself into?

Pacing back and forth past the row of one-way windows, "worse" wasn't something she wanted to even consider.

It was a total nightmare.

Having finally touched down in Las Vegas and arrived at the secret base, John Keller made his way down the dimly-lit, concrete hallway at the brisk gait practiced by every government official to ever work in the Pentagon. He'd heard it called the "Delta Dash" by one snarky aide, but it was well-disguised as a fast walk and had Lieutenant O'Malley trotting at his side. Yelling might ruin your reputation, but running could cause a nationwide panic. The Pentagon was huge. You do the math.

As he neared his destination, the rapid clicking of heels echoed more and more loudly off the walls. He slowed to a normal pace, nodding at his enormous escort, who moved into parade rest against the wall.

On her next approach, the Chief of Staff saw the worry on the face of his colleague and probed with concern, "Rosie insists your face will freeze that way if you don't stop working so hard."

"Leave _Rosetta _out of this, Keller." Loretta Hewitt's troubled frown deepened into an angry scowl, "This is serious. A complete nightmare. And if it had been anything _more _bizarre, or a later hour of the day, or a later time of the month, or a robot with worse intentions, it would have been totally uncontainable. Not that it was handled particularly well- I am going to _roast _Simmons and his S7 protocol- but if things had gone _any_ other way, we wouldn't have been able to stop it. Hell, there are probably a hundred leaks by now. Any idiot with a cell phone could blow this wide open at any moment, and Primus help us if anyone had any _real _recording equipment outside the Pits-bedamned '_Containment Radius'"_- she sneered with air-quotes- "because I don't think God does PR damage control. We can't handle this kind of thing, John, there just aren't-"

Chief Keller stepped forward and snatched her emphatically waiving arms at the wrists, drawing a heated glare and interrupting a vehement protest, "That's enough, Loretta. Last thing I heard before I got on the jet was that the Decepticon posing as an F-22, Starscream, got in the base, and I heard that he'd left when I got here. Was anyone hurt?" He fixed her with his level blue gaze and she let out a frustrated sigh.

"No; the Lennox girl was scared witless, but that's as much the fault of everyone running around like loons afterward as the scary looking jet-robot with armed missiles harassing Optimus Prime. Simmons dumped his coffee on himself and got a nasty burn and sprained his wrist when he slipped on it trying to get the doors open, but I'm not inclined to care at the moment. The upper walls in the NBE 01 hangar are warped from being blasted by jet exhaust, but the ventilation in here is apparently the eighth wonder of the world. And the robot-firewalls went down, but I'm told they're back up now. No," she sighed, allowing herself a brief moment of relief, "No one was hurt."

Keller joined her in her sigh and released her hands, rocking back on his heels and looking around, "Alright. Alright, so no casualties. That is the most important thing right now. Why don't you give me the rundown on why this is such a total disaster, then. What did that Starscream want?"

Hewitt shrugged, "Something is seriously wrong on Cybertron, from what I can tell. He reported some deaths and that the Decepticons found something they shouldn't have. A 'giant Autobot insignia.'. He ranted and raved a bit about it; I didn't catch everything he said. He hisses like the music your grandson listened to in college."

Keller dragged a hand through his hair, which was getting whiter by the day since he had become involved in this mess. "Did Optimus say what that was about?"

She shook her head, "Only that it was bad for the Decepticons too, and I think it's serious. Then Starscream blasted out of here, Bumblebee and Prowl got sent off to find the other Decepticons, Ratchet had to wake up the newcomers for a bit an has been ranting angrily ever since, and Ironhide tracked blue paint across the entire level looking like he would _explode. _There were _heat waves _rolling off him, like L.A. in August, John. And now Prime's gone, the kids and Epps ran out of Ratchet's lair like they were on fire, the Lennoxes are collectively spooked by _something _he said or did and no one has been brave enough to go back in there since. And we've lost Jazz."

Shock crossed the older man's features as his face fell, "_Again? _What happened? I thought you said no one was hurt."

A quizzical frown furrowed her brow and she tapped her foot impatiently, "He's _not _hurt. And he's not dead, so stop looking like that. We just can't find him. Epps saw him leave what everyone is calling "Medbay" and no one has seen him since."

"Oh. Well, he is a spy. I don't like it, but there's not much we can do. I still don't see why this is a total disaster. You and our guests seem to have handled yourselves well and prevented any casualties."

Hewitt's hands clenched into fists at her sides and cast a hateful glare down the hallway. "It _wouldn't _have been a total disaster if our resident Paranoid Police hadn't turned it _into _a total disaster." She turned on her heel and flung her arm out to indicate the wide windows as she marched down the hallway. "Instead of witnesses, now we have to deal with _prisoners._ These 'Sector Seven'" –the word dripped with bitter venom- "fools have no idea to behave like an official government agency. Now we have a professional poker-playing shutterbug from New England and his prep school daughter behind Doors Number One and Two. Door Number Three features a just-graduated couple from Wisconsin who were going to go national park-hopping and just happened to stop for a picture up top." She withdrew a tiny velvet box from the pocket of her jacket and brandished it at an increasingly astonished and concerned Keller. "They strip-searched the poor kids and found this, by the way, ruined the surprise, and confiscated it. Door Number Four features a family of five from Fort Lauderdale. The older son speaks enough English to be very confused and we don't have a translator yet, and we won't have one for another six hours because this place requires such ridiculous clearance. Door Number Five- and my personal favorite- is a trio of elderly ladies from Phoenix here for the bingo and slots. Each and every one of them saw an F-22 dive into the tunnel and/or leave. The ladies in Room Five are already coming up with conspiracies to explain it- they read the tabloids, you know. They were taking the picture for our young couple, so their heads are cut off but there is a lovely jet wake on the river in the background. The Floridians were in the observation room and saw him fly so close the windows rattled." She paused to gauge Keller's reaction.

He breathed out a long sigh, eyes closed and hand pressed to his temple, then glanced up at her, "That's… They only saw a jet? He didn't transform publicly, did he?"

Secretary Hewitt smiled bitterly, "If they hadn't immediately been pounced on by the Men in Black, they would have no credible reason to believe he was anything more than a plane landing where it really shouldn't, some secret but not terribly useful-looking military project. I could have shaken their hands, gotten them to sign a nondisclosure agreement, and sent them on their way with a fruit basket and a story to tell their kids not to tell anyone about someday when the thrill wears off. Now things are complicated."

The Chief of Staff walked slowly passed the windows again, observing the people inside in various states of distress and fear. "O'Malley," he called down the hallway, earning himself the click of boots and a smart salute. "See if you can't find Sergeant Figueroa and get him down here. We'll wait until you come back to get started." He turned to Hewitt, "Stuart is in the area and will on his way here shortly. I think he'll be most effective through a translator, and Mr. Figueroa is trustworthy. I'll speak with the ladies of Room Five personally."

"To sway them with your gentlemanly charms?" Hewitt quirked an eyebrow.

"As a matter of fact, yes. A poll taken before the election primaries- I don't even want to know where they come up with these- said that I was a favorite candidate for President, but only among white women over sixty south of Virginia. I think I'll put that one to the test. I don't know what to do about your young Wisconsinites-"

"I'll handle them," she cut him off. "He brought her here planning on a two-week road trip through America's most beautiful vistas to work up the courage to propose and we blew it. I want to make it right for them."

"What are you going to do?" Keller looked at her suspiciously.

She smiled, "I'm going to pay off their student loans and rig them a lifetime national park pass. I'll send them an expensive flower arrangement for their wedding and book their trip to anywhere in the States for their honeymoon. Then I'm going to dock some ridiculous- and let me tell you, they really _are _ridiculous- government salaries for acting on protocol under revision without running it by me first, and for ruining their vacation."

Keller looked dubious, but didn't argue. "Yes. That's fine. Now, what about the father and daughter? Do I even want to know why they are being held separately?"

Hewitt scowled again, "They're the main issue here. We would have had to detain them anyway. Dad," she gestured to the balding and very pale and worried-looking man wringing his hands and peering around his room with wide eyes, "named Andrew Hooper, is a professional poker player, professional-quality amateur photographer, and weekend hiker. According to his daughter Kelly- who doesn't know how to keep her mouth shut and doesn't understand the seriousness of their predicament- he comes out here to work and sometimes visits UFO hotspots in the area. Has lunch in Rachel, climbs Tikaboo Peak in the dark to take the best pictures of Papoose Lake in the morning-"

"Isn't that Sector 4?"

"Yes, it is, and no, I don't think we're dealing with the garden variety UFO nut from Unsolved Mysteries. Records show he's only been out here nine times in the last seven years, and most of his pictures on the web are astronomical, not conspiratorial. A few feature officially nonexistent traffic around Papoose- I may be new to the whole secret organization thing, but they're not being terribly secret over there. This time he's just here to work, and came out to Boulder on his way to take his daughter for a day on Lake Mead. He's not in any of what Banachek calls the "usual" communities of weirdos around here, and I think he's more interested in getting himself and his daughter out of here than exposing anything."

"Then what's the problem?"

"With him? There isn't really one. He got some fantastic shots of Starscream- we've confiscated them and you really ought to take a look. Turns out he was climbing around on the cliff-side down the road to get a shot of Kelly with the dam in the background. He pegged the Decepticon entering and leaving the Bot Cave in his full, many-megapixel glory. You can clearly see where his left engine buckled and the insignias on his wings. They're really incredible for something that happened so fast."

"But you confiscated them and you think he's reasonable. Forgive me Lori, but I don't see the problem."

"The problem," she stated slowly, "is Kelly. She's nineteen, a legal adult and completely unreasonable. She got a call while her dad was trying to take her picture, meaning she was on her phone when Starscream went by. As soon as she figured out what the agents were trying to get out of her she clammed up, but I'd bet my coupe she told whoever-it-was what happened. She probably doesn't even know the plane model or where it went to, but now she knows it's important and she's being stubborn."

"Can't you extract the number from her phone? It might be easier that way."

"Maggie is trying, but the first thing they did when they caught her and her father was ask for her phone. She shoved it in her extremely complicated frappuccino."

"My God. Kids these days," he would have continued had O'Malley and Figueroa not rushed down the hall to meet them.

The big Lieutenant resumed his post between them and the open end of the hallway, and Fig saluted enthusiastically.

"At ease, Sergeant. We have several detainees who witnessed the recent incident with Starscream from outside. Five of them are a Spanish-speaking family, and we have not been able to get a qualified and cleared translator. Given that the former members of Sector Seven are still operating on old protocol, I was hoping to enlist your help so we can get them on their way as quickly as possible."

Fig looked surprised but nodded "Sure. Where are they from?"

"Fort Lauderdale," Secretary Hewitt supplied.

"Bue- I mean, great. Then we speak the same language. Can't stand that Spain crap, say they don't understand me…sir."

Keller nodded and overlooked the odd informality, "Good. The FBI Chief will be here shortly and you'll be translating for him. This will go on the official unofficial record as an experimental emergency indoor landing and takeoff of a fighter jet in the this facility, an extension of the hydroelectricity plant here at the Hoover Dam. We're testing the viability of indoor runways that would not leave our planes open to attack." He looked to Hewitt for agreement.

After brief consideration, she gave it. "We decided to test the theory here because the structure already had the necessary landing space, saving time and valuable taxpayers' dollars. The tourist facilities and the road were supposed to be temporarily shut down for the test, but there was a breakdown in communication and Boulder was prepared for it to happen tomorrow, while the Air Force insists it was scheduled for today. We still don't know when or how the mixup happened and are terribly sorry for the inconvenience caused by the confusion of multi-organization security protocol."

"Oh, and the pilot managed the landing and us down here got the plane turned around, but none of your military _genios_ thought the plane would blow the walls to _escorio_ when he left." Fig shrugged innocently when they gave him incredulous looks. "What? It's not like it might not happen again. Now you've got a reason it failed or that you do it again."

Defense Secretary Keller sighed one final sigh and moved back down the hall and around the block of rooms to their respective doors. "That's fine with me. Just cooperate with Hiller and we can get all these people on their way soon." He looked gravely at the slab of steel between him and the chattering elderly ladies.

"You know, there _is _one thing that is terribly amusing about this whole situation," Hewitt remarket offhandedly as she passed him.

"And what is that?"

She smirked at him as the guard fumbled to open her door of choice and gave her hand a slow wave at shoulder-level, "I'm about to convince them that they didn't see any robots today."

John Keller rolled his eyes skyward and shoed her in the door as it was opened, "Move along, move along..."

And he dreaded the next few hours a little less when he heard her stifle a laugh.

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So that was kind of odd. I have a rather complicated sequence to execute around now, but I'm not prepared to dig in and write it up yet. But I just started there at the beginning and ran with this, and I think it's a decent beginning look into the increasing effects of Transformers on the world around them, and it sounded halfway intelligent at the time. I haven't done much editing on this one yet so please have mercy and just drop a line if you see something.

And meet Tremor, the Christmas tree shaker. He gets put on the naughty list every year because when there are no more trees to shake after Christmas… HE SHAKES SMALL FLUFFY ANIMALS.

Leave a review, then visit **OblivionMasquerade** dot deviantart dot com. And stare at stuff. Yeah. I'm going to go into Caffeine Crash Mode now.

Carry on.


	57. OLD MAN ex Machina

OMGZ! She lives! I'm still too busy for this, but I've been making time here and there. What's new, I wonder?

HOLY CRAP! My **family **is reading this stuff! Some of 'em anyway. So here's what we'll do. We'll tone down the language, get rid of the violence, never EVER allude to, ehem, 'mature content', keep my mouth shut when I'm procrastinating, and maybe tone down my creepy author's notes a little… scratch that, a _lot…_

PSYCH! I'm just messing around. Daddy and the Good Twin have fulfilled my only two requirements; if they're under 13 they haven't let on and they started from the beginning. Sheesh, never thought you guys would _nag _me to write this stuff…

**teh: **Thanks for taking the time, I was starting to O.o a little without your review. You are my review rock! Happy birthday!

**GaliStar07: **Don't ask me. I haven't seen Jazz in ages.

**Bluebird Soaring, RachaelMNiner, skywarped: **Thanks, I'm glad that digression didn't throw you guys off. I'm trying very hard not to operate in a robot-insulated vacuum. …though, that would be SO COOL. But no. I won't!

**Myrmidryad: **Thought someone would get a kick out of that. I was reading some really bizarre polls the other day and that's what happened…

Sooo… I'm alive. And I don't own Transformers. (In case I was so awesome you thought I did…)

OLD MAN ex Machina

Time and time again, it seemed, Bumblebee would earn his recurrent title of Good Driver. One might say he was a teensy, weensy bit overqualified, what with _being _a car and all.

A Super-Advanced-space-robot-car.

That and he had a navigation system that would take personal insult to being referred to as anything like GPS, and could probably come up with a route expressive of its ire. But none here shall refer to said system as GPS-like, and thus Bumblebee's course was both clever and frivolous, weaving on and off the highway, through parking lots, and even through a drive-up ATM line. He managed to do so without breaking any traffic laws or endangering any civilians. By the time of his rendezvous with Prowl, he had confirmed that his follower was undoubtedly a normal sedan with an extremely persistent driver.

He led the gray Chrysler behind a motel, facing outward by the time it caught up to him. When it had come to a complete stop, Bumblebee bounded forward to rest a mere two inches from its front bumper. Now the humans had only one way out, in reverse. But that was not an option either.

Not that they needed to know that.

Both front doors opened, the suited passenger lurching out to lean against the side of the Sebring and popping several small pills into his mouth- probably high blood-pressure medication, Bumblebee noted.

The driver, however, unfolded his tall form from the car and approached Bumblebee grinning and with his hands in his pockets, the white button-down under his jacket only half tucked-in. Bumblebee recognized him immediately.

"Good show, kiddo! I haven't been in a car chase in… since the seventies! I'm glad I made that whippersnapper move over at the airport. Kids don't know how it's done. And that was neat, forcing me through that ATM line while you went around… You alien-types are pretty good drivers, I guess. Now what was it I wanted to tell ya, eh?" The elderly man stopped by Bumblebee's side mirror, scratching his sparse, unruly wisps of hair. "Right, right! My guys found some clues as to where yer evil cop car's got itself to. Got a blip this mornin' and got on the plane with Keller when everything went to Hell in a takeout box. Had the boys put 'em on on of these… what'ya m'callits. Loretta said you'd gone off after 'im, so I thought I'd chase you down and give it to you in person. Am I ever glad I did!" He pulled a small memory chip out of his breast pocket, waving it at the yellow sportscar. "I got 'em to put some extra goodies in there for you and yer friends too. Now how you read it, I sure don't have a clue, but if you happen to have one of those slot thingamajiggers-"

_Primus, he'll just keep going! _Thought Bumblebee as he obtained permission from the hidden Charger to interrupt the rambling old man. "Chief Hiller, sir, there's a data extraction port where my stereo controls are. Please just slide it into the tape deck."

"Oh. Well ain't that something? Technology these days…" The tall man opened Bumblebee's door and leant over his driver's seat to slip the chip into the tape deck. "'Least you've got a tape player. You know what my grandkid said to me the other day? Said 'Grandaddy, you gotta get with the zee-roes. Nobody even uses CDs anymore, everybody's got an iPod.' My own granddaughter! If her little phone can take pictures and play music and run tetris, I say a car can still have a tape deck. You've got one, and you're a robot from the future-"

"I'm not from the future, sir, I'm from another planet. Would you please step away now? I _am _undercover." The components in his data port were already reconfiguring around the little chip like the tumblers in a lock, reading the set of tiny files with extreme care.

"Feh, same damn thing," he brushed the correction off lightly, "Anyways, I've got to get on my way too. HQ West can't do anything without me. Of course not, with the Cabinet trying to run a secret agency!"

Bumblebee had an inkling he would continue, and intervened before Hiller had the chance. "Thank you for the information, sir. I'm sure it will help, but I really should be on my way…"

The elderly man nodded and straightened the spectacles which were perpetually sliding down his nose. "Good, and see that you get 'im. Decepticon robot bastard's up to something sinister, I'm sure." He walked away, and shook his fist when he saw that his generic and, until one sentence from now nameless companion had made his way into the driver's seat of the grey, government Sebring. "Clarence! What've I told you about drivin'? That's right, don't! Kids these days, got no backbone. Oh, and Bumblebee?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Do remind your black and white not to block the rear bumper when we try to go. I'd bet my lifetime subscription to the Wall Street Journal he's behind that dumpster." Hiller's skittish driver craned his neck in a panic, looking for the hidden vehicle and finding no sign of it.

"Yes, sir," a mildly impressed Bumblebee implied as the chief of the FBI folded himself back into the government car and it made a three-point turn to leave in the direction of the highway.

The low growl of an eight-cylinder engine made its way around the huge waste receptacle , using it to block the Sebring's view of him as he sidled up to Bumblebee.

For several moments, it was silent. Then a small hum of music grew from the yellow car's radio, growing louder and louder until the lyrics were audible.

"_I always know where you are; you never know where I am. You caught me sneaking around like-"_

A growl from the Charger's engine drowned out the end of the verse. The volume of the rock song jumped.

"_**You'll never know where I've gone; you've gone and done it again. You caught me sneaking around-"**_

The police cruiser's engine let out a huge _**ROAR**_as the yellow Camaro took off, gleefully out-pacing it.

"_**LIKE THE INVISI-BLE-BLE-BLE LIKE THE INVISIBLE MAN! LIKE THE INVISIBLE MA-AN!" **_

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It's a funny song. It's on one of the Spiderman soundtracks.

I took a bit of a cheap shot at my little Garmin GPS named Nancy. If she were a robot, she'd be Nancy, the robot GPS! She'll lead you to your doom! ("In point-two miles, turn left. Turn left. Continue two-point-six miles and arrive at- **your DOOM!** Arriving at- **your DOOM!")** Not really any different except for the robot part. I love her dearly, but she is a _little_ evil and has one quirk I can't even begin to comprehend…

You tell her to go to Jo-Ann's Fabrics, and she drives you all around Burlington before dropping you at WalMart. It's the only address she's done that with. The lesson?

Robots hate fabric.

…what?

Alright, a little note on review for the 'folks.' Contrary to common belief you don't have to have an account if you want to leave a review; I have enabled anonymous reviews for this story. If you hit the little button that says Go, it'll let you spaces to type the name you want to display and the text of the review. Members of which entails a username, a password, and an email address, can also add me (as an author) or any individual story as a Favorite, which puts a link to it in your profile, or as an Alert, which sends you an email every time I update with a link to the new chapter. You certainly don't have to, but it's out there. It's not like we don't text each other.


	58. Black Rook Advances

I really wasn't planning to write tonight, but I did. The last chapter was shamefully short, I know, and I hate writing a chapter and hoarding it away. When that happens I don't know what anyone's talking about when they review, which makes me feel like an old lady. Not that I'm not practicing, what with all the crocheting and baking and kibitzing about my health problems, but still. I like to feel like I have a short-term memory worth spitting at. Plus I made a certain promise that any chapter with 10 reviews gets a double-feature. I don't think that's feasible anymore with you guys hitting it every chapter and me so busy I can't feel my brain, so I'll be upping the bonus requirement to 20 reviews. Think we can do that? I dunno, but let's give it a whirl! Only chapters 28 (the cute chapter) and 45 (the drunk chapter) have gotten 20 so far. Maybe I'll just be serious when I'm too busy to do a second round…

**MegaPixelGlory: **Well, it wouldn't exactly work if he were looking debonair and extra-sketchy having been nabbed by the Men in Black. And thanks for the correction, and the review! BTW, there are some characters from the movie in this chapter that I haven't really introduced. There's an evil Saleen Mustang police cruiser and a hyperactive boom box that doesn't really speak English who hang out together. Have fun with that.

**Kyme: **That wasn't me, it was FF. It also ate the word 'friend,' as in "You can remind your black and white friend not to blah blah blah." First spaces, then periods, and now words. I think there really are formatting vampires in the FF server. O.O Oh no! What if they eat OPTIMUS PRIME'S BELOVED SEMICOLONS?!?!?! I don't think my inner child would survive… T-T Thanks for the heads-up! If only I could _do_ something about it…

**W00twag0n: **You know I'm only doing this to sabotage your already deteriorating sleep cycle. Who else would I be terrorizing, after losing Spud thirty chapters ago?

I do not own Transformers in this stream of the multiverse.

Black Rook Advances

The police cruiser growled menacingly, causing several young delinquents to make a hasty change of direction to avoid him. The yellow Camaro was getting on his nerves. It had been amusing at first, to lead the annoying young scout on a fruitless, almost playful hunt from downtown Los Angeles to the suburbs all afternoon and into the evening. But the novelty had worn off some time ago and his attempts to lose the persistent Chevrolet had not been met with enough success to put him at ease. He supposed it was time to turn the game around.

If he played his hand well enough, he could crush the Autobot and leave before its irksome colleagues came to collect its rusting husk…

"Gid'digiddizook'naa-crushcrussh!-buribu_rrr_ot'tekkidok- kill!kill!kill! Autobot-ot-ot-ot- g'zookd'gaa- _scum! K'd'k'gik!"_

"Shut up, Frenzy." Barricade ignored his schizophrenic little parasite and focused on plotting his attack, forced to minutely tone down his rather paranoid scan regimen. The yellow bug was hardly a threat to him, that much had become clear when he planted Frenzy with the Autobot's feeble human companions. It probably still thought it had won on its own terms.

Pitiful.

Aware the Autobot was on the next street on the vaguely L-shaped row of identical suburbian roads, he turned around onto the next side street and backtracked. How sad it was that he, a fearsome warrior in his prime, who had seen some of the most grisly battles the war had produced, was reduced to playing hide-and-seek with a youngling barely able to defend himself in hand-to-hand combat. Avoiding detection by worthless organics, even.

Disgusting.

There! He made another turn and darted across his pursuer's street, several blocks to its rear. The Camaro stopped, uncertain. His sensor shields seemed to be working nicely, however, and without his headlights on he would be harder to track. Not that he had much to worry about; he knew this area far better than the Autobot. And he knew exactly where to lead it.

"_You want to play, little bug?"_

He bounced the signal off a water tower several miles away, then went back into comm. silence and took another side street. He then stealthily backed into the driveway of a dark house and smothered his engine into its quietest idle.

The yellow bug was clearly confused. No doubt it was getting conflicting signals from its sophisticated communications receivers. They were the reason the police cruiser couldn't escape outright, but they would serve him well in setting his trap.

It was a pathetically simple tactic.

The Autobot seemed to have gotten its bearings again; it sped onto the police cruiser's street and slowed to a crawl.

Clever little Camaro.

But that just wouldn't do. "_Patrol 331, this is Dispatch. I have another report of a group of 5150s at the Robert Frost school a mile north of your location. Request a Code 3 and an FST if they aren't GOA. Over."_ A well-placed radio transmission had saved him from discovery by the local police on the few occasions he'd been observed closely.

Several blocks away, a set of lights and sirens sprang to life, wailing and flashing toward the local middle school. The bug hesitated, and turned to follow.

How foolish.

His engine roared to life and he peeled out of the driveway, speeding after the yellow sportscar with his own lights and sirens making a fuss. As the startled brake lights approached his nose he whipped around, jolting the Autobot with a tap from his side to its bumper and speeding down the adjacent street like a demon. He turned again and went back to being a growling shadow. Somewhere nearby, another siren keened into the night.

Useless fleshbags and their meddling. Time for a change of location.

He set out for an industrial park two police districts over. That should be a fine place to continue their game.

And to end it.

He made sure not to lose his precious prey, winding around side streets and hiding anywhere convenient. He never appeared in the same position relative to the increasingly agitated Autobot. By the time he reached his intended destination, and had baited and chased the other vehicle in circles several times around the desolate industrial park, the Autobot was behaving quite frantically. The sinister police cruiser had only to park himself discreetly and wait for the right moment. Alone and outmatched, it was just as well the little scout felt fear.

For it would die here tonight.

He would pick off every Autobot on Earth, one by one, until only Prime was left. Then he would be made Soundwave's second, and wage a war of his own choosing instead of being sent to babysit Starscream on some back-galaxy planet covered in organic filth. And if he knew his opponent, it would be a war to remember. But he wouldn't be distracted. No single prey was his match, and the glorious slaughter to come had to begin with the perfect execution of this one, pitiful Autobot scout.

A pitiful Autobot scout who was getting closer… he readied his engine as quietly as he could… and closer… he idled a little higher to brace his tires… and closer… almost… and then he…

**-**LUNGED!

_**SLAM!**_

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Ouch. That sounds like pain.

Has anyone noticed that I tend to abandon Ironhide whenever he needs immediate help? I've really got to work on that. Poor sad giant alien war machine. T.T

By request of **w00twag0n **I give unto you Mobius, the evil robotic escalator. One minute you're going down, the next you're going up, and the railing always moves at a vastly different speed! Be careful, or he'll snap at your hem and eat your pants!

Noooo! Not the pants!

P.S. I am aware that Prowl is missing from this chapter, so you needn't go non-rhetorically nuts over it. Maybe Bumblebee knows where he's gone off to..? I hope Nancy didn't get him lost on the way there… O.O NOEZ!


	59. Black Rook takes White Pawn

Alas, for it has yet again been far too long. But tonight I decided to do this so I could keep my sanity, and here it is.

The next chapter is actually well into the works, but it's been really hard to write and I can't deal with it properly right this minute. So I decided to squash this in the middle and I'm fairly pleased with how the whole fiasco is going to work out.

Thank you, my reviewer-people, for continuing excellence. Those of you who dug up the story and read it all after my last post… you guys are insane. But awesome.

I do not own Transformers and I don't profit from this story in any way.

Black Rook takes White Pawn

To say that Bumblebee was flustered was like iterating that he was yellow. If one didn't already know the truth of the matter, they would just never understand.

And do I mean_ yellow. _WOW; yellow.

And also flustered.

Why wasn't Prowl answering his transmissions? Was he hurt, or was there something jamming his comms?  He feared the latter, since he could not raise Optimus Prime or the other Autobots, but it was impossible to know taking into account the possibility they were still inside Hoover Dam. The silence worried him immensely. It was totally unlike his commanders to allow such a breakdown in communications.

One thing, at least, the yellow(!) Camaro could attest to was that Prowl had not been accosted by Barricade. The horrendously fast evil police cruiser had been toying with him for the better part of the day, literally driving circles around him into the evening. The logistics would be impossible, so the Autobot Second in Command could very well be fine. But if their communications were jammed, now _that_ opened up an altogether-terrifying possibility.

That Soundwave was already here.

Bumblebee shivered on his shocks at that, focusing harder on his sensor sweeps as he caught a telltale blip of alien energy. The less processor space he had to contemplate that particular risk as he searched through the suburban neighborhood brimming with human families, the less real the danger might seem. Soundwave was not a name uttered lightly.

Or thought lightly, given the mech's… _unusual _capacities.

Suddenly his comm. unit buzzed to life and he let a sigh of relief whoosh from his heat vents as he accepted the signal. Prowl must've-

_"You want to play, little bug?"_

Bumblebee's transmission clunked down a gear in shock. It seemed Barricade was still playing games, but he was nothing but serious. The signal had been bounced; he calculated an approximate location of the cruiser and slowed to a crawl, sensors strained to their maximum sensitivity.

A few streets to the west, a siren wailed.

_Crap! _Bumblebee had been hoping for an opportunity to implement the mild demi-expletive he had learned from Sam, but the circumstances were certainly not what he would have wished. He sped off in the direction of the noise, only to discover the roar of an enormously powerful engine behind him. As he slowed and prepared to reverse direction, the Mustang did not bother to brake. Tires squealed as he careened about on two wheels and his black flank jolted the Camaro's trunk. The police cruiser bolted at ninety degrees without even slowing down.

Bumblebee raced after the Decepticon, ignoring another set of sirens and lights that sprang to life a few streets over. He _could not _lose him now.

Suddenly the black and white blur was on his right, and then he was gone again. Then he somehow appeared on the left, only to shoot across the other robot's lane and disappear again. Bumblebee tried hailing Prowl again, but to no avail. Barricade was sparing no effort or traffic law to spook him, it seemed.

The thing was, it was starting to work.

As he rolled into the silent industrial park, Bumblebee was instantly wary. If he had to face Barricade alone there was no guarantee he would be able to win. He was surprised he'd been able to do so the first time, but then he had been protecting Sam and Barricade was likely forbidden from harming the human. This time, the deadly Decepticon had nothing to lose except his life, and the Autobot presented him the best odds he could currently have in a fight.

Not to mention that this _might _be Barricade. Or it _might _be Barricade and between zero and two of Soundwave's ferocious little minions, one of which _might _be Frenzy.

And his own backup was MIA.

Joy.

And, to top things off, he was finally forced to admit that he had lost the police cruiser's trail entirely. He could be anywhere.

Keeping to the middle of the road, so he at least _might _have some warning of an attack, the Camaro zipped this way and that, frantically trying to pick up some sign of the Decepticon before said Decepticon could ambush him.

He cruised down road after road of dark, corrugated metal buildings in his search. He only barely heard the echo of a metallic pinging noise before a thunderous roar exploded into his right side. The impact of the black nose of his attacker against his passenger doors jarred his sensory systems into reboot and pain lanced along the deep, linear impression of the Mustang's grille indented into his side as he was flipped onto his back.

_Ooooh__, rear-wheel drive pain._ That was all his processors could handle as Barricade lunged again, and all Bumblebee registered was the sharp impact to his nose and the roar of the approaching Decepticon before his sensors faltered again.

And when he came to, the entire world seemed to vibrate with a deep growl of hate.

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I was very impressed with all your speculating on the previous chapter. …I am rather shamed to admit, I wasn't really trying with the sneakiness that time. But I _was _sneakily convincing you I was being sneaky, and thus sneaked you all! …completely deliberately, of course, y_esssss__._– I think I just channeled my inner Beast Wars Megatron. I'm ok with that.

So, while you wait on bated breath for my next post like I know I am, why don't you all mosey over to OblivionMasquerade dot DeviantArt dot com and check it out? I made Seeker photos! Plus my iPod Transformers and a particularly majestic Optimus Prime desktop. Go have fun!


	60. White Bishop Advances

O.o updating on time? Vaht iz zis do ve sink?

Ok, long store short: it's late, my eyeballs are start wigging out, and I have this chunk of TB edited so I thought, you know…

Someone might want to read it.

I do apologize for my lack of small menacing robot in the previous chapter, a matter I will attend to before I post again. In fact I may go back and make sure all of my chapters have robots, and perhaps write them down somewhere this time… yes. On another note, this and the next bit were supposed to be the same chapter. Surprise surprise, I'm putting a break in the middle. This theater dress rehearsal I went to took way longer than I thought it would and I'm quite too dead to edit the rest right now. And I'm flying to Cleveland for my boyfriend's frat formal this weekend, so it's hasta la vista until next week. Boo, hiss! as they say in Wooster, Ohio.

I'm all up in ur fanfix not ownin ur Transformerz.

P.S. He really should be the Queen, but I rationalize my way out of that.

White Bishop Advances

_"Prowl to Bumblebee.__ Status report."_

The police cruiser growled threateningly, causing several noisy college-types to make a hasty lurch onto the sidewalk to avoid his front bumper. He was beginning to worry about his yellow companion. What had begun as a refreshingly playful -if mildly immature- chase to their destination had transformed itself into the serious search they had planned. Naturally, they had enforced comm. silence. Unfortunately, now that he had something to report, he could not seem to contact Bumblebee over his private channel. It was only small consolation that he knew exactly why.

Especially in light of the fact that he was repeatedly being given the slip.

_"Prowl to Bumblebee.__ Status report."_

His prey appeared again, darting out from a blind spot behind a dumpster, and made a beeline for another side street across the lawn of a condominium. It used its greater maneuverability and loose morals to its advantage whenever the opportunity presented itself, but Prowl anticipated its route with enough accuracy and pursued with enough speed to keep up.

The Autobot again tried to identify his quarry's choice of vehicle mode, and again found his connection to the World Wide Web blocked. It was getting irksome, this airwave-isolation. Prowl was g- no; glad would imply relief, which would indicate a result other than the expected one- but he was infinitely _satisfied _with his decision to download maps and surveys of the area directly into his memory files rather than relying on global positioning to navigate. Most Decepticons would hardly entertain the notion that organic technology could give Cybertronians any kind of advantage; but this one was different. Intelligent. Resourceful enough to know the difference between ignorance and pride.

And oh, was this mech proud.

Deciding that the scout could handle himself for the time being, Prowl gave up trying to contact Bumblebee and focused on his objective.  It was time for a change of tactics; he turned left into a quiet housing development, then right onto a wide boulevard and gunned it. The seeming-Earth vehicle -stranger than most, Prowl had to admit- reacted instantly. Refusing to be out-paced and headed off, the three-wheeled speedster hurtled across a corner garden and across the boulevard, fishtailing to ride directly in front of Prowl's bumper.  It gave the Autobot an uncomfortably close view of the Decepticrest emblazoned in chrome on the light-ish wheel-cover in front of his nose. When the huge sports car engine kicked up an octave, the thing whined and its tires screeched as it zipped back into Californian suburbia.

It neither slowed nor attempted to evade the police cruiser this time. It raced from residential street to residential street, through a grocery store parking lot and into a business district.

Prowl calculated an 64 percent likelihood that he was being led into a trap of some kind, and a 35 percent chance the Decepticon was biding its time and would try to lose him again. It depended almost entirely on whether or not such enemy backup was to be had.

Suddenly, the thing swerved. Prowl had to slide his rear end around ninety degrees to make the turn into the dark complex of human structures. The smaller vehicle had much less trouble maneuvering between the buildings, but he was forced to slow down in order to avoid cutting the curb on several occasions.

If he had been going any slower, he would have missed seeing the light-colored patch glide past the space between the large, geometric industrial park shrubberies around the corner. Wary of being heard, he made a slow a U-turn and slunk around in a wide, zig-zagging arc to observe his new company. When he pulled up to view the proper street, he was met with the sight of familiar stripes and a glinting chevron.

_Bumblebee!_

And then his engine stalled as he watched _himself_ explode out of nowhere and collide with the Autobot scout's side. The black and white shape stopped, rocking on its shocks as the Camaro was flipped up and bounced onto its roof, tires still spinning. An engine rumbled a deep chuckle into the night as it veritably coiled to strike again.

The Autobot second in command lunged from his hiding place, his frame jerked forward as he accelerated. As soon as he saw the other black and white move, he locked his brakes and spun, sideswiping Bumblebee's nose and sending him skidding backward with a squeal of metal on asphalt. His double halted immediately in surprise a foot from his grille, and Prowl had the opportunity to scrutinize him more closely. He had to give the human, Sam, his due credit. The resemblance had been startling.

_"Prowl."_ The low purr practically dripped with malice and delight.

"Barricade." Prowl's flat statement held nothing but disdain.

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Hell yes. ARE YOU READY FOR SMACKDOWNZ?

I hope so. Stuff has been so… peaceful, lately. Downright awful, that is.

But I'm basically going to prom again (only much more sophisticated and mature members of society ;) on Saturday, so maybe I'll meet Benzington, the transforming black limousine! He's really tall and looks like he's wearing a tux when he transforms. Chrome cummerbund ftw.

That made a ton of sense. But now you should all go over to OblivionMasquerade dot DeviantArt dot com, because I just edited some new Transformers stuff. Ironhide goes on vacation for **Bluebird Soaring's** desktop pleasure, and he dons the Headband of Infinite Ammo for mine. Oh, Ironhide. What are you up to? We don't know yet. I haven't written that part. /

P.S. This is **CHAPTER 60**! TB HAS JUST REACHED **200 PAGES**! And **482** awesome reviews!

…why don't we all submit a review and see if we can kick it up to 500 REVIEWSthis chapter too? It's a big important-looking number that would look awesome in bold and…

**_The Popcorn Incident_** awaits. Snicker.


	61. Fianchetto

Here it is, guys! The really difficult chapter that's been wringing my brain for the past few weeks. I think I did ok, but it turned out a bit differently than I expected. Let me know what you think, ok? I'm not terribly confident in my fight scenes.

Let's see, I'm feeling some ridiculously general review-responses right now. Those of you who read this because you know me, thanks for putting up with me. I hope I'm at least entertaining for you guys. The rest of you, who read because you actually _like _this stuff… major props, and thanks for sticking around even when I went MIA for a while. I know it's annoying to keep up with giant gaps like that.

I think this is the last in the Chess Saga for now; I'll give the metaphor a rest for a while. In chess, a Fianchetto is a maneuver in which you get your knight pawn the heck out of the way and move your bishop out to the third row, freeing it to move about the board. In Transmission Breakdown, it's sending Prowl out into the field with an enemy and getting rid of all the interference…

The rights to Transformers belong to Hasbro and Takara.

Fianchetto

_"_Prowl."_ The low purr practically dripped with malice and delight._

_"Barricade."__ Prowl's flat statement held nothing but disdain._

In that moment there was a stillness in the air; one not born of silence. The entire world seemed to vibrate with a deep growl of hate. Neither the whirring and clacking of Bumblebee briefly transforming to right himself nor the high-pitched whine of the low-riding, three-wheeled menace slinking to a stop on either side of the standoff could break the tension. The similar vehicles facing off rumbled in unison, each poised for action.

"Frenzy," the Mustang sneered, "You and your insolent cohort lead the bug away and take him down."

The twiggy silver figure flashed out of Barricade's door, flipping Prowl off and skittering over to chatter excitedly by the bizarre new arrival, which was revving its engine and emitting an odd string of static. "N-n-n-no! Burri-ri-burrrother tekki-ekki say-ay-_ayz_ gid'zook'd'_gaa__!_ Wantss-ss-ss to f-f-f-fight bu_rrr_o-rop-p-p-Prime'szzzzz _pe_t-t-t-t-t!  N-n-n-not-ot, k'zzk'_weak_g'naaa Bug Bot!"

Barricade's engine roared, "**You will _NOT _question my authority, Pit-spawn.** You fled like a coward to Frenzy and I for protection, and I will have my pick of our prey. See that the youngling does not escape, and I may not complain to Soundwave of your blatant disrespect when he arrives. Unless he _ordered _you to waste time hunting stray Autobots before reporting to me." It didn't take much knowledge of the Decepticon to recognize the danger in that tone.

The odd speedster's tires squealed as it peeled out, its irritation evident as it screeched to a halt at the end of the straightaway, lights flashing and Frenzy cursing excitedly as he scrabbled for purchase on the sleek exterior.

"Bumblebee," Prowl murmured quietly, "Do not let them escape."

The Camaro pulled cautiously around the Charger, pausing momentarily, "Are you certain you can-"

_"Go."_

"Yes sir!" And with that the spastic Decepticon duo took off, swerving dangerously into the access road behind a small party rental warehouse. Bumblebee sprang immediately after them, zooming out of sight into the labyrinth of metal and pavement.

"Well, well," the Mustang drawled into the quiet, "You look good, Prowl; I'm flattered. Did you choose that alternate form with me in mind, or was it," his voice dropped to a mirthful hiss, "coincidence?"

As if on cue, the pair rolled lazily back several meters from each other and stopped.

"Merely coincidence, as we seem to have similar scan requirements. Did you choose that paint scheme to make you feel important, or did Starscream select it for you?" Prowl's tone was mild, but the other vehicle revved angrily at his mockery.

"How dare you, insolent _glitch!_ That Seeker _scum_ is no master of mine!" he barked and spun his tires, the metallic ringing of his voice lingering in the silent space, the muffled sound of nearby engines ignored under the squeal and haze of burning rubber.

Regaining his composure, the Mustang chuckled softly, wickedly, "You think you can make me angry, get me to make a mistake. Your fancy calculations and tactics aren't going to work against me. Nowthat you've saved me the trouble of hunting you down and flushing you out of hiding, I'm going to take my time catching and killing you."

"Likewise." The calmly idling Charger remained still, the hum of its processors an almost audible over the tension gripping the moments as they crawled by.

The Mustang rocked a little on its shocks, "What's wrong, _Autobot_? I thought congratulations were in order. Letting your medic and that out-dated flyer die in the Lyra system was a great feat; after all, you Autobots seem to be lacking in both. You and that simulation computer of yours are making my job easy, you know." The smugness in the low, gravelly voice was unmistakable.

The Charger idled a little higher. "Get on with it; I have nothing to say to you."

At exactly the same time, both police cruisers launched forward. They swerved and barely avoided knocking mirrors, spinning and sliding in a circle with their doors parallel. In the next moment they broke apart, each skidding back to rest opposite each other yet again.

Barricade let out a plume of exhaust, "Get on with it?" He sneered, "So eager to fight. What if I wanted to surrender, Autobot?"

"You presume overmuch if you think I am giving you that option, _Decepticon_."

"Too bad," said Decepticon growled darkly, "It would have been an amusing preface to killing you." The Saleen transformed in an instant and brought his whirling weapon down where Prowl had been, splintering the pavement  as the Charger careened out of the way in reverse, pelted by flying chunks of still-warm asphalt. Barricade snarled and transformed to follow as his prey executed a three-pointer and took off, hitting the ground with a slamand letting out an irritated _whoopwhoop__! _of his siren.

He turned a corner and prowled slowly through the open, gently creaking gate of a cable provider parking lot, weaving systematically through the rows of company vans and cherry-pickers. "Hiding like a weakling doesn't suit you, Prowl," he glimpsed the gleam of a dark shape retreating behind the building's dumpster. Barricade closed in on the area, "It's shameful, really; I must confess that I've idolized you for some time," he sneered. As he rounded the corner a large, white and silver hand shot out from the cover of a trailer painted with the company's bright, modern logo. It gripped the protruding edge of his hood and, crumpling it, heaved him to teetering on his rear bumper.

"Then you are a poor disciple. A Decepticon ought to find a more appropriate example to follow; I have nothing to offer unprincipled murderers." The Mustang retreated awkwardly in reverse as soon as he was able, transforming into a backward stumble just in time to wrench away the wrist which would have thrust a laser pistol point-blank into his exposed chassis.

"Oh, I beg to differ," Barricade snarled as he whipped his bladed weapon between them, putting some space between himself and his enemy. "It's not every unprincipled murderer that has engineered his very own _genocide," _the words were soaked with glee and malice, breaking into a deep, manic laugh when Prowl risked firing his weapon at the Decepticon, who blocked the shot with a thickly-armored forearm marked '9-1-1.'

"Struck a receptor, did I, Autobot? I think that count is up to three now; let me see, the Destroyer of legend, the late Lord Megatron… and _you. _Tell me," Barricade ducked a strike aimed for his head, "did you really leave Cybertron to help search for the Allspark?" He made a grab for the pistol-wielding arm and yanked the tactician forward, grabbing the other as well and speaking deliberately into Prowl's face with sadistic glee glimmering in his red optics, "Yes… tell me, how many of the Autobot survivors can stand the knowledge that you live? How many would not follow orders from the one who killed their brothers?"

He wrenched the wrist in his hand, which dropped its weapon, and prepared to flip his captive, but Prowl dropped to a crouch and swept the surprised Decepticon's support from under him with a haphazardly-flung leg. He retrieved his fallen weapon and released its twin from its integration with his flank, firing four rounds at Barricade as he rolled away, hitting an exposed shoulder and leg armor. "I was trying to stop the massacres and miscalculated. It was the Decepticons whose retaliation escalated into genocide." 

Barricade jolted to a stop when he hit a telephone pole, the snapped lines spitting and whipping about as the cracked wood leaned over in slow motion, the extra coils of the power lines pulled taut against the transformer on the adjacent pole. Showers of orange light gleamed on checkerboard armor as the enraged mech slowly collected himself into a crouch. "Ah, a 'miscalculation.' Am I supposed to be honored? To think, that same computer which sparked the glorious Gestalt Wars with a 'miscalculation,' reduced to inventing petty tricks to keep up with me on this Primus-forsaken mudball when we should be pitting our armies against each other." Barricade's face split in a jagged grin, "I, however, need no such crutch to destroy you!" The Decepticon coiled, sprang, and charged his opponent.

Prowl fired at him, hitting Barricade's leg armor and the base of the still-upright telephone pole, but the Decepticon did not stop. Prowl was forced to transform to avoid the vicious swipes of shining black claws, accelerating and swerving around Barricade's thundering feet to make him turn and lunge for the evasive muscle car.

The teetering power transformer and writhing wires crashed onto the diving robot's back even as his claws dug into the Charger's bumper. He spasmed and convulsed, his lights and optics flickering on and off as his siren and vocalizer cut in and out of a weird chorus of wails. Prowl wrenched himself free of the twitching claws and transformed, retrieving one laser pistol from the side of his leg and leveling it point-blank at the other black-and-white's left audio receptor. He fired, vaporizing the outer armor, again, blasting a hole through the protective layer and sensory equipment-

_"Prowl!__ I- _hey stop that_-! I've got Frenzy and- _do that one more time and I'll_- Ow! But I couldn't grab hold of- _that's it, you're going in the trash can!_-__ You've got incoming, but I could sure use a hand over here! _Why you little-! _Bumblebee out!_"

Prowl stared evenly down at the hole that would have gone clean through the other mech's processors in one more shot, gaze flicking to the red glow struggling to flicker back online, audios catching the telltale whine of the approaching enemy. It took two-and-a-half nanoseconds to run the calculations for the best scenario to play out.

He reintegrated his gun with his thigh armor, transformed, and roared away.

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A bit less shameful, yes? That one was four pages. Go me. I suppose it's back to the plot for me…

Speaking of plots, _e tu, Pruné? _Prunus is an evil transforming cherry picker; he'll prune your trees oddly and screw up your cable connection so you only get Lifetime and Oxygen. NOOOOOOOOOO!

Not that I've seen TV in, you know, months. But I found some clips of TF:RiD on YouTube a little while ago, and boy was that a blast from the past. What a crazy show; that and the G1 movie were my first TF experiences. Which was extremely confusing, because they kill off all the characters in the movie and RiD is really different-looking. Prowl looks like a Gundam... O.o

I think I'll check out Animated over the summer. I dunno, it looks (figurative 'looks') cute but it _looks _freaky. I mean DEAR PRIMUS, THE CHINS! **THE HORRIBLE CHINS! **shudder And why is Prowl a robot monkey ninja, like from that power-ranger-type robot monkey show with the annoying theme song? And Sentinel Prime is a random ass, why…?  I _am _going to give it a proper chance. I'm just a wee bit intimidated by- OH MY EYES! THE CHINS, THEY STAB ME! OH, THE HORROR…

…sorry about that… I just don't know what's worse… the giant rail-spike-chins…Jazz's _corset…_or Ironhide's beer-belly… O.o

…robot…beer-belly… shudder…


	62. The Life and Times of Ironhide

I live!

This is Part 1 of probably 3.

Please don't eat me.

I own no part of Transformers, and experience only silly emotional profit from this story.

The Life and Times of Ironhide

ish(Finally)2

There was just something about the human term "seeing red" that would have irked the speeding black hulk of a truck if he deigned spare the processing power to contemplate it.

Which he didn't.

But if he _had, _perhaps it would have evoked such imagery as the preschool-primary red of the fourth mezzanine in the NBE01 chamber, or the shine of the candied-apple of Prime's armor, or the rusty hues of the Western geological strata, possibly the liquidy organic crimson that dribbled everywhere when a human sprang a leak, or even the piercing gleams of carmine set above a Decepticon's fanged leer-

But it did _not._ At that time, all our motorized friend had-

-furthermore, he may have recalled the abandoned mines of Karbonium, from whose scarlet ores one might synthesize-

NO. No more nonexistent contemplation, no more stupid color symbolism, no more fictional history lessons, and no more arguing narrative.

Geez.

So, here in real, 'actual' actuality, there isn't much to say about the situation. A huge truck barreling down the flat stretches of shimmering highway is hardly material for a news flash, a nerdy blog, or even a wayward chapter of fictional science fiction.

**_"-dang frag-flippin,' tail-turning, slag-eatin' rebuild of a glitchy disposal drone-" _**

…unless you take into account that the truck is one very extremely P-O-ed robot from space. Then comes the debate of whether or not an angry truck constitutes a perpetrator of road rage, which would make the evening news and nerdy blogs everywhere.

**_"-when I get you on visual, you rust-infested turbo-crawler with wings, I've got a-"_**

As Ironhide's massive bulk flew across the desert, there was really only one concern currently processing in his CPU was an intense, immediate desire for a target lock on Starscream. Maybe more; crosshairs are to a fuming Ironhide what chocolates are to an angry Sarah Lennox.

**_"-to shove right down your half-junked Decepticon turbines and-"_**

The more there are in their field of vision, the less likely you are to be shot.

**_"-you'll hit the ground in more pieces than both twins on a bad day!-"_**

In order for the truck's wish to become a reality, however, he had to find the jet first. Somehow tearing around southern Nevada cussing at him on every channel wasn't doing the job… it may be safe to assume this never occurred to Ironhide.

**_"WHERE THE FRAG ARE YOU, YOU SORRY FRITZING EXCUSE FOR SMELTED AIRBORN SCRAP! GROW SOME BEARINGS, COME DOWN HERE, AND FIGHT ME LIKE A REAL-"_**

Because that is exactly what went down on the desert highways and byways for the better part of the morning. Speeding. Cursing. General irreverence for anything with wings and/or supersonic speed and/or a penchant for avoiding being shot.

Thus you must recognize an author's problem. When the same thing happens over and over again from breakfast to brunch through lunch and into those vague hours where you want to eat something, but you only ate a few hours ago and dinner is right around the corner but why oh why isn't it here yet? (at long last, a comma), it is difficult to develop a meaningful story and a worthwhile chapter. Something must happen, or…

…nothing happens.

…

….

…..

Well this is awkward.

And so, Ironhide continues to terrorize the American West on non-radio channels most humans mercifully cannot detect and, more mercifully, cannot decipher. All the while searching for the very Decepticon jet he is threatening to kill in nasty ways, mostly involving repeated shooting and marginally less frequent crashing. A jet with near-impossible speed, nigh-diplomatic immunity, and absolutely no reason to approach a very angry old Autobot with big guns and a bone to pick with his existence.

**_"RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!!"_**

…no argument here.

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Long time no write! Sorry this is such a wonky little chapter; long story short: wisdom teeth removal, moving back in, working my butt off, Mom monopolizing my time left in the States, getting ready for Japan, computer fragged itself, wiped hard drive and reinstalled… _everything, _and the cherry on top is that The Popcorn Incident and what _was _going to be Chapter 62 got lost in the hoopla (cue backing this up tons of elsewhere). And I L-O-A-T-H-E rework. It's all in my DeviantArt journal; it's a good way to check that I have a pulse if you're not sure. Assuming I still have readers…

There's a teaser for The Popcorn Incident in there somewhere, 100 percent à la Ratchet, for your perusal.

Plus, you know… some art.

And I joined Transfictions and promptly forgot my password. It has a shoutbox on the front page, which is oodles of bizarre fun!

…when do _we _get a shoutbox?


	63. The Siren Song

I apologize for the last chapter, it was odd and not very well thought through, but I was intending to write a proper chapter but had to go back and do a lot of re-reading, and then it got late, but I wanted to post _something _to show for my efforts. So we have a weird mini-chapter with a wonky narrative voice. Oh well.

I've been doing a lot of photographing and posting my stuff on DevArt so I have everything online when I go to Japan. Two weeks, people, and then I flee the country! I may get to do a decent amount of writing while I'm there, seeing as this summer program doesn't seem to leave a lot of free time, so I won't really be going out. And it's fragging hot in Kyoto in the summer and I'm not planning to bring entertainment other than my computer, so I'll likely be spending my non-study time writing. Then we'll see what happens during the school year; hopefully I'll get a nice backlog so I won't have to write in English much, which I'm not supposed to.

Hasbro controls the rights to Transformers, and I write this without permission for no profit.

A Siren Song for Starscream

Starscream could not be more pleased to leave behind the organic-infested hideaway of the rag-tag Autobot nitwits. Really, what kind of self-respecting mechanoids would choose to install themselves in some dank, dark _hole _and pay appeasement to tiny, carbon-based _vermin. _

He wanted a few thousand miles behind him and a decent wash just _thinking _about it.

Unfortunately this miserable little dirt-ball seemed to be lacking in amenities suitable for the Air Commander's needs. Still, it had weather patterns that were sometimes agreeable enough. The sullen F-22 began scornfully flipping through air traffic control channels until he heard what he wanted to hear; warnings for an early Tropical Storm heading for the Gulf of Mexico. It wasn't a good scrub, but it might alleviate that nasty _underground _feeling for a while. The next time he wanted to speak with an Autobot, maybe he would just blow something up…

Or demand they meet him on top of one of those flimsy square structures built by the organics. Ha! How dare the arrogant little creatures even _think _to call them _sky-scrapers. _Why, he wouldn't even have to engage his engines to leap from one and land safely. It was insulting.

In fact, this whole, tiny, miserable excuse for a moonlet was probably conceived and accumulated from the cosmic minutia as a personal insult to he, Starscream, Air Commander of Cybertron and rightful Decepticon Overlord, eventual Ruler of the Universe. As he flew, gracing the planet with his superior presence, and its skies with the elegance and skill of flight they would otherwise never know, he deigned it appropriate to list his complaints against the greater order that spawned this ugly infant of a planet to spite him.

1. It was tiny. Even flight on the dirtball made him claustrophobic, as it can be circumnavigated in any direction far too quickly, clearly intended to pen the Commander like its prisoner. But this fault is a failure! The planetoid's inferior gravity and dense atmosphere cannot even hold him; for he is Starscream, and none can deny Him the heavens.

2. But the heavens were so slagging _crowded. _If not the organic obstacles of the lower atmosphere, which had an unpleasant habit of exploding when he hit them, then the seething debris-field of satellites in orbit, or the clumsily-controlled 'aircraft' the humans were so fond of bumbling around in. They were big, slow, and _loud. _Really, it was worse than listening to Autobot fliers, who were as a rule incompetent, glorified ground-rollers, needing training, an open comm. line, and someone practically _holding their wings _to stay off the ground. Hmpf! Starscream executed a graceful twirl, flip, and vertical acceleration. He was a _Seeker, _one of the exalted "Princes of Vos;" practically on-lined in the air, and never having set foot on Cybertron's surface until he became Air Commander and joined the Decepticons. This planet's version of "flight" was entirely unworthy of him, and he scoffed at a commercial jet lagging far below.

3. Speaking of below, the view was terrible. Flying could be such a _bore_ over 99 of its pitiful surface. One would think that even puny, flightless fleshbags could appreciate the need for SOMETHING to look at from the air, other than vast expanses of sodium-chloride-ridden liquid and uninteresting landmasses. The puny mountain ranges and weather patterns had entertained him briefly, as they offered him some kind of challenge in flight. But they were nothing compared to Cybertron's enormous projections: the Deltions Dextro and Sinistro, nor the Dorsis Major or the immense Barathrium Meridianus. He was nothing if not a master in the air, and had already tired of lording his superiority over puny landforms and changes in atmospheric pressure.

4. Ah yes, the atmosphere, perhaps the greatest offender against him. Why must such a tiny, nothing-planet be coated in such a thick, roiling mucous of stench and itchyness? Nitrogen is well and good, but _oxygen??_ What a ridiculous element! Far too unstable; if the protective coatings of his armor and components went damaged for too long, he would start to rust. Rust! Oxidize! Crumble away into nothing! At his age! The very thought was ludicrous. But oxygen wasn't even the only offender, oh no, the _humans _and their planet's foolish shifting around had the sheer _audacity _to poison HIS territory with tiny particles of dirty, itchy _madness_. He rolled and banked angrily at the thought; his engines and wings were _prickling _against the barrage of nasty, dirty particles, and positively _burned _where that Autobot oaf had crumpled and cracked his protective layers.

5. The fragging atmosphere, so tainted and disgusting it deserved not one but _two _bullets in the List of Most Troubling Complaints in Starscream's ultimate wisdom. The incompetents who decided on an atmosphere of this configuration was positively _glitched__. _Did they not _realize _that it refracted light improperly?? It turned the sky _blue!_ It was infuriating! He hated that color. HATED it. Would not have anything to do with it if he could help it. And it was the SKY, _his _sky. The unfairness of it festered in him.

6. And it was fragging bright. What possessed life to form or the Allspark to land on a planet with a yellow sun _and_ a ridiculous atmosphere? They should have been aware that Decepticon optics, including his, were only optimal in low-light conditions. Perhaps the planet could be moved? Surely fusion propulsion, which could on Cybertron hold an entire continent-sized structure aloft indefinitely, would be sufficient to push the miniscule blue opticsore at least as far back as the fourth planet in the system? Actually, perhaps it would be better to simply move the Autobots and whatever humans they wanted to keep (but why would they want any at all?) to the fourth planet anyway. He actually found that dustball to be rather… quaint. Surely it was tiny and flat and dirty, but its atmosphere was thin and dim and _not itchy _and it was delightfully uninhabited. In fact, smelt everyone else, perhaps he would go and enact his bid for universal lordship from there, leaving the Autobots and the vermin and everyone else to rot on this glorified _swamp _of congealed nebula-refuse… but how would he lure Soundwave there? And would he be able-

Did he mention that this infernal planet was _loud? _There was a strong signal penetrating his airspace that just would not SHUT U-… _hmmm…_

**_"-dang frag-flippin,' tail-turning, slag-eatin' rebuild of a glitchy disposal drone-"_**

_Entertaining, if a bit outdated…_ It quickly became clear to the illustrious Air Commander that the reason for the strength of the signal was that its source was one fragged-off Auto-scum weapons specialist, not the annoying native species. He immediately turned his attention to the transmission, circling lazily rather than heading out of range toward his improvised shower.

**_"-and a track-towed hover-freighter, when I get you on visual, you rust-infested turbo-crawler with wings,-"_ **

The Autobot was swearing at _him! _That certainly piqued the Decepticon's interest. It was clear such insults were meant to draw him out, but Starscream wasn't stupid. It was easy enough to ignore the intended injury to his pride and continue to circle. He had no reason to approach this thankfully ground-bound specimen of bad language.

But where in the universe had this old beater of an Autobot learned to properly curse out a _Seeker?_ Few wheel-worms had ever socialized with the cliquey fliers, even before the entire model-caste had joined Megatron's conquest…

**_"-I've got a canister of aft-burn to shove right down your half-junked Decepticon turbines-" _**

_Oooh__, that__ one almost hurt. _Perhaps the rusty fool had missed the nuance of shoving something 'down' a turbine versus 'up' one, but he was even starting to blend in Auto-brat terminology as well! With a little polish, he might be able to seamlessly insult all factions, models, _and _generational groups of mechanoid life! Bored, itchy, and alone, this source of entertainment seemed tantamount to a scientific discovery…

**_"-and you'll hit the ground in more pieces than both twins on a bad day!" _**

_Ha! _Oh! That was rich! He couldn't vouch for the beginning of the tirade, but the attention-grabbing application of old, authoritative broad-spectrum insults, followed by a string of personalized stabs of Seeker-specific slurs, leading into a very modern threat of vaguely-described but painful-sounding bodily damage, and driven home with evocative imagery based on pain and suffering Starscream had caused personally on several occasions… it was violently inspiring!

Who knew an _Autobot_could harbor such sophisticated notions of threatening mechicide?

**_"WHERE THE FRAG ARE YOU, YOU SORRY FRITZING EXCUSE FOR SMELTED AIRBORN SCRAP!_****_ GROW SOME BEARINGS, COME DOWN HERE, AND FIGHT ME LIKE A REAL LEADER, DECEPTICON SCUM!" _**

And he was still going! How very tasteful to do away with the complicated vulgarities and get to the point. And the sheer _amplitude _of the transmission was incredible for a mech not designed for non-standard communications. Starscream could practically feel the fury across the miles-

**_"RRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!!"_**

"-!"Starscream let out a high-pitched shriek as his receiver painfully blew a series of relays.

_Why you dirt-eating…! He will _pay!

The Air Commander wheeled around and shot back in the direction from whence he had come. Smelt the Autobots and slag their attempts to 'cooperate' with him. The axle-afted rust-bucket was fragging _asking_ for it. He dropped to skim low over the flat desert sending tumbleweeds scattering for cover, his injured engine _aflame_ from the hot dust and sand.

_No one _attacked Starscream in the sky and got away with it.

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ANGER ANGER RAAAAAAAAAGE is, I think, the important message here. Kind of like the music my bro plays on Rock Band. If you run into Nikoli Bosowskin on Live, watch out! He's nuts. Meaning really good. And his avatar looks like Pink fused with Liberace…

And (I'msorryIforgotmyrobotagain!Willfix!) allow me to introduce robot brothers Hendrix and (The Electronic Device Formerly Known As the) Ungrateful Deadwaker, the transforming guitar and drum controllers, respectively. They and Xbot360 rock out all day and all night, hoping to make teenage boys drop dead of exhaustion after major rock marathons. They also mess with the fun facts late at night, making you think you've gone insane…

It's almost TB's first birthday! I will endeavor to post again on the fourth.

But I'm leaving on the sixth… so no promises…


	64. Too Quiet

NOW UPLOADED FROM JAPAN!

…because of summer construction and hotel old-ness I don't have as much access to the internet as I was led to believe. While technically this chapter ends where it does, I ask my readers to reserve judgment on the situation at large, as this isn't where I intended to finish it.

I was happy to receive some nice reviews from new and regular readers while I was MIA; thank you and I hope you continue to enjoy!

I don't in any way own Transformers or the rights thereof.

Too Quiet

Why is it that, whenever it happens to be quiet, it turns out to be _too _quiet?

In this instance, we find our setting to be just so. On a silent salt flat sufficiently centered in Nowhere as to not bear mentioning, the only possible reference points are a string of distant mountains blocked by a wall of shimmering heat and an equally distant rocky outcrop against a backdrop of perhaps faraway rain; a road of ancient asphalt and the row of solemn telephone poles small to anyone who might look.

In such a place one is hard-pressed to find anything that makes any kind of sound at all. Rare are the creatures who could or would want to survive the stark, oppressive landscape; seldom are the breezes that might stir the dust. On a hot day such as this, time itself seems to have been frozen into a solid, silent thing, to say nothing of any manner of life.

_Ping__._

There is, however, a blemish on the flat, featureless limbo. A pair of shallow, ridged scars trace their way through the white and rust, doubtlessly stretching to connect Somewhere to Nowhere, but falling short somewhere in between.

_Ping__; ping._

And, of course, in the middle of it all is a great, glorious lump of gleaming black and chrome. Huge, powerful...

…and so very quiet.

_Ping__._

He didn't really know what had happened, only that it had. One minute he was tearing around, raring to rip Starscream to shreds.

And then…

…what?

He hadn't hit anything, despite his recklessness. Nothing had hit _him,_ certainly. There was no squeal of brakes or pang of panic or sudden revelation or important decision. He hadn't been told to and he still wasn't sure he had particularly wanted to, he had just…

…stopped.

Right here, in the very middle of no-place with no edges, Ironhide had simply, finally… stopped going. Forward. Anywhere at all.

_P-ping._

What had he been doing in the first place?

Looking for Starscream. To kill him, or somesuch reason. But why bother? Why bother looking for someone because one intends to deactivate him, when that intent is the same as it has always been?

But his own reasons had changed. It was no longer enmity between artillery and air strike; it was an act of vengeance. And if he couldn't get to her murderers, he would settle for their brother, their _commander_. Even if he couldn't bring her back, it would sure as slag make him feel better.

But she could still be alive! …no. It seemed he had already given up hope of that. He knew how Decepticons confirmed enemy dead. And they had known when they chose different assignments that they would likely never see each other again. It was foolish to pretend he could believe otherwise; hope burned like acid now, best to keep only a little.

Would it really help to kill the Air Commander? At one time, he would not have doubted for a moment. But what had a few moments ago been so important, so satisfying, now seemed as empty and desolate as this place, as his future had become. What would one Seeker matter? He like everyone else had fought untold numbers of own kind, bots who would deactivate him as well as he would them. Could one really place the blame for a single death on a lone party, unit, or chain of command and take his revenge?

Then again, did it matter who had pulled the trigger, who was personally responsible? Any of them would have. The universe would be better off ridden of them all.

Or would it? What would be the price? Keeping the Allspark hidden had cost them Cybertron and Bumblebee's voice. Killing Megatron had cost them the Allspark and Jazz's life. The entire war had been a game of give and take, a spark for a spark, a constant fight between enormous sacrifices and tiny gains. If it continued, the only mech left would be the one with nothing and no one.

He was starting to sound like Nova again. When he was young, perhaps, the ideal of an endless battle would have thrilled him. What better destiny for one who was built to fight than being locked in eternal combat for a cause he believes in? The Second War had been petty and bland in comparison.

But he was sick of killing his former friends, students, their students, the younglings who had only ever known this Third War. He couldn't stand seeing their numbers dwindling, mechs with the same frames and pumps and cables stooping to lower and lower means to tear each other apart. Couldn't bear having the bright young bots close to him deactivated one by one while his joints were rusting and armor creaking with age.

He didn't want to do it anymore. So he just…

…stopped.

_Ping__._

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…yeah, that's it for now. It became more reflective than I intended, but I found myself spending a long time working out everyone's feelings on the situation after putting it down for a while, and I figured it would be presumptuous to throw the result at you guys without involving you in the process a bit. Personally, I don't like this kind of chapter, which is all talk and no action, and I look forward to the next round.

That said… JAPAN IS AWESOME. Kyoto is awesome. I'm having a lot of fun here, and you can see some pictures and read my journal entries on my deviantart account, OblivionMasquereade. The only things I've bought for myself are a folding fan (it's really hot!) and these adorable robot earrings. They're really cute!

This installment's super-advanced robot is Jidohanbai-king, a vending machine with so many choices your brain will explode just trying to decide what to get!

…unless you take my advice and just go for the grape soda or the apple juice. No, I'm not kidding. They are surprisingly excellent.


	65. The Wicked and Wild Wind

Ok, I've got like ten minutes to get this up before I'm dragged out the door for dinner.

Proudly presented from New Hampshire! Japan was/will continue to be super-awesome. I'll be heading back there shortly, but I'll try to keep writing as much as I can!

Thank you to my reviewers for their much-appreciated feedback!

I really really really don't own any of the rights to Transformers!

Enjoy!

The Wicked and Wild Wind

It looked dead.

That's what Starscream thought, anyway. And he'd seen things ranging from frighteningly alive to so dead you wouldn't believe it had lived unless you'd killed it yourself (and of course he had), and the whole gamut in between. When he came upon that lump of black and chrome, it looked somewhere between stasis lock and recent pump failure.

_Good riddance!_ was, of course our dear Air Commander's first reaction, bless his gracious spark. Not that he would go down there and confirm his good fortune. Since separating from his wing-mates he was trying to keep stupidity to a minimum.

This was followed closely, as super, alien processors whirred to life, by _Slag, I'll be blamed for this, _and succeeded with a burst of speed as he circled the scene, and a firm denial of any need for those good-for-nothing Autobots anyway.

This was all, of course, overshadowed by an overwhelming belief that the universe is out to get he, Starscream, Air Commander of the… (blah blah important stuff) and that there was no way, _no way _in the Pit! that the rusty old projectile-enthusiast had just dropped dead in the desert of a bad fuel pump. And though one might argue that such a long and spark-felt tirade of profanity might just be enough to cause a mech older than subatomic particulate to drop offline of sheer exhaustion, it was improbable considering the normally lethal events the scrap-pile had survived until now.

Such as being hit mid-air by a Seeker.

Oooh, that still smarted! The next time one of his numb-circuited subordinates rammed an Autobot and made it look like a good idea, he would throw them at this specimen and see what happened. Assuming he still had subordinates…

Which led him back to why he _wasn't _pulverizing the oaf on sight. He had to at least try not to _look _as if he'd deliberately attacked a poor, defenseless Autobot minding its own business and looking for all the world like it was dead.

_This wasn't supposed to be an issue! _How could he take his wrath out on the fool without a) appearing to have started the hostilities and b) _landing_ like some fledgling who wouldn't know a trap if it bit them on the afterburners…. He could just feint and say he didn't, but then it would be the potentially not-dead weapons specialist's word against his, and even _he _would sooner trust the former. He could try using…

No. Wait. He wasn't some slow-witted lout picking a fight at a seedy bar for some kicks. He was Starscream! Decepticon Commander, a genius in the air and everywhere else. He could have his revenge for his damaged receiver, sore nosecone, and missed shower. And he could get it with tact and grace. Sometimes, to outsmart an Autobot, one must… (and he shivered in his fuselage, vowing a good long rinse very soon)… _think _like an Autobot.

Disgusting.

_"You!__ Autobot scum! Iron-brain!" _

Nothing. Just the sound of metal pinging in the heat.

This was ridiculous_. "Autobot, you WILL acknowledge me," _he sneered over the comm. signal._ "You have insulted me gravely, when I have-" _the very thought! _"-done you no harm. …Recently." _Snickering and grimacing to himself, he braced his ego and took the plunge; _"I DEMAND-"_

_"D'you ever get tired of it?"_

_"-AN APOLO- whaat?"_

The black ground-vehicle pinged a bit more, and Starscream was beginning to think he'd finally started going out of his processor when-

_"Don't you ever get tired of it, youngling? Going through all of the hemmin' 'n' hawing just to end up back where you started from?"_

_"…No."_

_"You wouldn't, would you? Yer young yet, still full of your own spark and thinkin' you're the hot molten slag, Primus's gift to creation. Have you even got anythin' to lose worth more to you than yer own armor?"_

_"What are you babbling on about? Spare me; I much preferred the insults to these soft-sparked theatrics!" _The jet banked sharply and spiraled higher, miffed by the lack of decent entertainment.

_"That so?__ Sorry to disappoint. Forgot what I was angry about all of a sudden."_

_"Why does it matter, WHY?!__ Just shut up and _shoot _at me so I can tear your miserable carcass to shreds!"_

_"Sounds like I'm not the one who's got anger issues. What's got yer turbines jammed?"_

_"WHAT- You!__ You got my attention with that tirade of yours and BLASTED my receiver, you insolent glitch!" _He corkscrewed at the sheer audacity, whirling around above the Autobot like debris in a hurricane.

_"That yer problem, then?__ It ain't always about you, compute? My transmitter shorted from the amplitude. And stop flyin' around like that, makes my tracking systems dizzy."_

Starscream hissed acidly, _"You expect me to believe you _weren't _attacking me after all the things you said? After what I told your noble Commander? And you want me to land!" _The screech of the jet's cackling fell dead out of the sky onto the flat landscape. 

As did the Seeker. Except that he did a swift backflip, spiraling downward to land with one clawed foot planted firmly in the Autobot's truck bed, slamming its rear undercarriage into the ground, the other dug cruelly into the metal of the Chevy's roof. "As you wish, Autobot scum," glee glinted redly in the silver mech's optics. "What's this, I seem to have landed_ on_ something. My mistake…"

Ironhide only grunted in response to the F-22 perched on top of him. "You might want those lenses checked. Wouldn't want a bot thinkin' you'd done that on purpose."

Optics narrowed and faceplates shifted into a grin, claws flexed experimentally as the Decepticon mockingly crooned, "I really should; you know, my wing-mates and I have trouble sometimes, accidentally landing on Autobots like that."

"I can tell," the elder bot huffed, the charade of civility wearing thin. For all that Seekers were thinly constructed and light on the air, having one stand on him was rather unpleasant.

"I suppose we're both lucky you're such a _big _and _strong_ ground-roller, or I might have… _crushed _you. Why, just the other cycle, my other thirds happened on a pair of skinny little things and, well…" A clawed appendage flicked open and clenched shut with a stifled screech. The flier's head cocked to the side, optics cast about, waiting for a reaction.

The beastly truck's engine rumbled to life under an otherwise still exterior. "So I heard."

One deadly claw tapped pointedly on the truck's roof. "Have I finally hit a nerve?  Face it; geriatric lapses aside, you _want _to try me, fool."

The truck exploded into transformation, its component parts shifting and rearranging  underneath Starscream, who released the metal plate as it was wrenched out of his grasp and leapt back to assess the situation.

Except that the truck immediately reformed and lurched forward.

Surprised, the jet used his springy legs to jump over the charging vehicle, only to be tackled from behind by four tons of Autobot combat expert. Starscream readied his engines to fire straight into the idiot's chest-

_SLAM! Bam! _The Autobot bashed him into the ground and yanked and twisted one arm behind his back. Bah! Seekers are double-jointed.

"DON'T even think about it. Yeh'll incinerate your arm if you try it now."

The Air Commander rolled his optics skyward. "Charming, _Autobot_. You've got me. _Now_ what?" he spat. As if he didn't have other ways to break free. It was still four tons of Autobot versus twenty tons of Decepticon.

"Lemme tell you something, Seeker punk. The way I see it, it's two against one on this planet. And that's a team of the four core members of Autobot Command and four more of their finest, against Soundwave's operatives, who are currently hiding like the cowards they are, plus you. Or it's us against them. And while I've got my cannon against your back, I hope you don't mind me askin' which one it's gonna be."

A thin chuckle pealed up from the ground, "And what's it to you, Autobot? I don't see why I have to change my colors, not when Decepticon leadership is so close to changing. Not when I have all but amnesty from Prime himself…"

"Amnesty, huh? Amnesty's just one word. It don't mean much to a mech when the words comin' out of your vocalizer are braggin' about killing somebot's trainees, comrades, and friends. Optimus thinks you're smart enough to adapt, and I agree with 'im, provided you don't get cocky and stick your head down yer engine."

The large, triangular mech was still for a moment. Then, "_UP_, frag you."

Ironhide tightened his grip, "I ain't stupid, if you're not-"

_"No. _It's 'stick your head _UP _your engine,' not _down_ it, you malfunctioning dirt-crawler!"

Mildly stupefied, Ironhide paused. "Ah, 'S been a while. Musta gotten mixed up somewhere along the way."

"Well, see that you correct this grievous oversight in the future; it does horrors for your already inferior..." A distant rumble caught their attention and a tiny dust cloud appeared to be approaching from the road. "Ugh, ground vehicles are disgusting." With that, Starscream heaved himself momentarily off the hard ground, folding his legs back underneath his body. In one mighty shove, he flipped himself aft-over-head onto his back, landing squarely on Ironhide's chest. He twisted to his feet and wrenched his arm from the Autobot's grasp, quickly bounding out of reach.

"So sorry, Autoscum; they say two is company, but three is an execution. I prefer to avoid the receiving end of those; you understand." And thus the Air Commander coiled and sprang into the air, transforming and blasting toward the southeast, cackling madly as he flew.

"I'm gettin' too old fer wrestlin' the young crazies…" Ironhide grunted as he rolled over, transforming back into his alt mode. Something in his rear suspension creaked as he settled his weight back onto his wheels.

"'Specially the homicidal ones…"

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How was that? Let me know!

Meet Shinkansentry, the transforming Japanese bullet train! He's white, pointy, sleek, and super-fast! Quite the mech to hang around with if you've got somewhere to go.

Quick-post accomplished!


	66. Dust to the Wind

Hey thar. What'choo lookin'at? I can update on time if I want!

…no, not really. More like "I can update on time if real life chills the heck out for five minutes," but I can't really complain.

This one is dedicated to my computer's battery life, which allowed me to write some of it in the car on the way back from Maine.

Responses: (Gasp!)

**Bluebird Soaring: **Thanks; I figured that these two especially are the fabled 'more than meets the eye' of myth and legend; and size is definitely not everything. Big Starscream is a concept I'm still wrestling with a little bit! As for your question, I think Ironhide's found some perspective and Starscream is having... thoughts. Thanks for reviewing; you are a rock. And you rock.

**cmdrtekk****:** Me too, glad to see the review, and thank you! I do enjoy Starscream's perspective, and writing his script. Between the paranoia and the pointy wit, he never has a boring day; that's for sure.

**JJK: **OoO Starscream would make the BEST OLD COOT EVER!

**the**** light before the darkness: **Yay indeed! Because if I don't get it up there right away I will forget about it. And Happy Readings!!

I do not own Transformers or any parts thereof; associated rights belong to their respective holders. No profit is generated by this literary work.

…I realize that as Chapter 66, this should either be somehow unlucky or have something to do with I66. Tough cookies. Squint hard.

Dust in the Wind

He looked surprisingly calm.

That's what Optimus Prime observed as he approached the parked vehicle in the middle of the salt flat, traveling only fast enough to stay out of his own dust cloud.

Especially considering the fleeting blip retreating from his sensor grid.

Not in any hurry to break the silence, the great Peterbilt rolled to a gentle stop beside his longtime friend and mentor, content to wait. He was once again surprised that waiting was hardly necessary.

"I'm sorry fer threatening you."

Had he been idling, the larger truck's engine might have stalled, "Ironhide?"

"I was thinkin' with my battle programming, not my logic circuits. And I ain't saying that's unusual, but it was uncalled for and I shouldn't'a taken it out on you. Nothing left to fight but the truth, I guess."

The red and blue semi rumbled quietly, "It is already forgiven. It was a terrible thing to hear, after everything we have done to turn the war back in our favor. I think everyone has been hoping to hear from someone they hold dear. It is regrettable that we continue to lose lives when the war is by all rights an empty cause."

Something in the black truck rattled sorrowfully, "I was sure lookin' forward to it, Prime. Seein' her again. The thought never entered my processor, until I saw Megatron dead with my own optics. Sam destroying the cube, Bumblebee gettin' his voice back, Jazz coming back from the Matrix; that kind of thing gets you hoping. I guess it wasn't meant to end all bright and shiny, not for everyone."

"I would that hope were not such a live wire, my friend. Did Starscream's answer satisfy you, then?"

"Didn't have to ask; he wasn't lyin'. If he'd said it wasn't true, I wouldn't've believed him. Pit, I'd have shot him. Some things ring true, right to your spark," the eight-cylinder engine under the dusty black hood rumbled to life, its owner executing a lazy U-turn.

"I am afraid that is a feeing I can sympathize with. Speaking of such things, I had the twins deliver their message from Ultra Magnus." The semi more swiftly reversed direction and pulled alongside the other vehicle.

"And is he evacuating Cybertron?" Ironhide inquired.

Optimus let out a slow puff of air from his smokestacks, "He is. How did you know?"

"I trained him. I know how he thinks. And if Starscream is makin' nice to us, light'll be reaching the depths of the Pit real soon. He's got no choice."

Prime huffed in mild frustration, "Please try to keep the slander of Starscream to a minimum, Ironhide. I want to try to encourage civility, if not friendliness, toward him for the time being. As things stand, we can only hope there is something we can do to aid our comrades on Cybertron," he paused as both vehicles stopped and proceeded carefully onto the badly paved road, a string of telephone poles and their shadows the pair's only company. "If Bumblebee and Prowl succeed in their mission, we may be able to discover something of use to them."

Ironhide grunted assent, "Yeah, and our tactician can start earning his keep fer a change."

"You, my friend, are a fiend. Prowl has been working harder than the rest of us combined, I am sure. Certainly harder than you, who have nothing better to do than chase after stray Seekers all day long. After leading the twins on an extended mission, I could hardly argue if _he_ requested immediate leave after delivering his report."

The large black truck chuckled, "Now _that _would be a bright day in the Pit, Prime."

The pair rolled leisurely down the deserted ribbon of cracked pavement, content to redden in the waning afternoon of a very trying day.

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Huzzah! I'm leaving for Japan again in a week and my muse seems to have granted me some of its attention lately. Go figure. I might be able to squeeze out one more chapter before I go and then it's all up in the air.

…which would be a great lead-in for a flying robot, but instead, WAFFLES! Perforator is a robotic waffle iron who would sooner waffle your face than gooey breakfast batter.

Don't even think about chocolate chips or bananas!

…unless they compel you to review.


	67. Coffee: 1, Plot: 0

Not too long a wait, I hope? I'm living in Tokyo now and getting through orientation alive. Classes don't start until the first, so between eating, studying, sleeping, and getting my alien self registered to live here, I've found a little bit of writing time on the side. I hope school, work, autumn, and life in general are treating everyone alright in the meantime.

I've noticed (who am I kidding, without BluebirdSoaring I would know nothing) that stuff has started leaking out about TF2. I hope you'll all join me in prayer for the safekeeping of the fandom. May our robot friends survive to see character development, Amen.

And without further ado, I insert my disclaimer (TRANSFORMERS OWNS ME, NOT THE OTHER WAY AROUND!) and offer you this humble tidbit before I find something productive to do.

Coffee: 1 Plot: 0

If there was one breed of Earth wildlife that Maggie Madsen found maddeningly frustrating, it was undoubtedly the teenage girl. Children could be confusing and adults could be downright thick, but teenagers were a different sort of animal. Teenage girls in particular were the absolute worst.

Not only were they cunning and had a capacity for cruelty, they were routinely used to getting their way. And when they didn't…

Well, in Maggie's experience there had been frozen shaving cream, leather upholstery, and the hot Australian sun involved. But in her book, the eighties never happened anyway.

So here she was, with the cold, coffee-ridden corpse of a cellular device, its pink rhinestones and rainbow-tainted screen glittering mockingly up at her.

At a cluttered desk in the fancy research lab, Maggie Madsen glowered.

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Agent Banachek waited patiently outside the holding rooms, ignoring the man fidgeting to his left. That morning had been a test of the new system, a system not yet fully in place. The immediate response had been a failure, but the rest was yet to be seen. It was important not to let things snowball.

He spared an irritated leftward glance at his companion, who couldn't seem to stop fiddling with the bright green bandage around his right wrist. Banachek sighed. This was just one of those days he wished he'd stayed in the research lab…

But no, this was where he could do the most good. He only hoped that things hadn't already gotten too far out of hand. Keller, Hiller, and Hewitt had were three of the country's finest leaders, and despite being well out of their element- except perhaps Hiller, whose 'element' no one had ever managed to pin down, exactly- they just might be able to pull this off. The end of Sector Seven's sovereignty over Above-Top-Secret information was long overdue; it was time an outside conscience was injected into its operations. It was high time people stopped being hurt and intimidated in the name of secrecy.

Door number Four was the first to burst open, a flurry of voices and laughter spilling out into the hallway. "Ah, _Señor__ Banachek!_Where's your secret elevator? We don't want to spend all day down here!"

Hiller, who was a head taller than everyone else in the small gaggle of people, was grinning, "Listen to 'im, Sen-yor, I want to show these folks out! They'll be no trouble at all, mark my words. Es-o correct-o, Sen-yorita?"

The older woman, clearly the mother of the group, chuckled, embarrassedly trying not to laugh and sharing amused looks with her husband and Sergeant Figueroa.

"I take it you had some success communicating the situation?" Banachek couldn't help looking dubiously at the suspiciously happy group of detainees.

"Success? We had a good time! This Miguel is a cousin of my brother-in-law, Carlos. They drove out to see my sister's family in California. Now they've signed your forms and they're running late, and you don't have to worry about them saying anything. They're _como__ familia! _And they don't want trouble with the government."

All eyes turned hopefully toward Banachek, who looked the family, Figueroa, and the madly grinning FBI Chief over, and shrugged. "If Chief Hiller is satisfied with your relatives' commitment to keeping our secrets safe, I see no reason they should be kept any longer."

"I-"

The fidgety, bandaged man was immediately cut off by said FBI chief, looking jubilantly between the Hispanic family and the Special Research agent. "C'mon, kid; it's not like anyone's gonna believe them even if they leak it. This is America! And I'd say these folks are a damn sight more patriotic than that spoiled little brat down in the other room, cooperating like they have. Let's just get 'em out of here, huh?"

"But-"

"Alright, follow me. Simmons, you wait for the next batch."

One down, four to go.

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Blast teenage girls.

"Maggie?"

Blast them, and their glittery phones, and their cheeky attitudes, and their big frozen coffees-

_"Maggie?"_

-and their Fendi sunglasses, and those stupid phone charms, and the way they repeatedly rip the charger out of the socket, exposing the phone's innards to the caffeinated drink-

"MAGGIE!"

_"What?!_Can't you see I'm trying?!" The Australian bombshell twisted around in her chair, causing the poor swiveling support to wobble and squeal.

Unfazed, Michaela Banes thrust what but a Venti iced latte at the blonde woman.

"Not funny. Do you honestly think this is funny? This phone is _ruined; _I can't possibly get any data out of it and I don't want to see another coffee, _or_ another teenage girl for the rest of my life!"

The brunette gave the frustrated signals analyst an appraising look, "No offense taken, Ms. Madsen. I just thought you might need a pick-me-up. …and maybe some help." She quirked an eyebrow, half-smirking expectantly.

Maggie sighed tiredly, clawing one hand through her hair and tapping her pen against the hairdryer lying next to the small, half-dissected piece of plastic and circuitry. Finally, she reached out and accepted the coffee. "Unless you've got a miracle cube in that glittery purse of yours, this phone is never going to turn on ever again, much less tell us what we want. And the little prima donna's phone records say it was an unlisted number that called her, so I can't even-"

"Maggie, wait! That," Michaela interrupted, very deliberately taking a pair of large designer sunglasses from the shimmering pink-gold purse, "is why we," she dangled the tacky handbag flauntingly in front of her as she slid on the shades and flipped her hair over her shoulder, "are going on a shopping trip." She stood with one hand on a hip exposed by faded jeans, daring the Australian woman to object.

"A shopping trip?! Whatever you're up to, I don't have time for-"

"Maggie. Grab the phone and give me your keys._ We're going shopping."_

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Oh my. Will Maggie ever solve the mystery of the secret phone call? Will Michaela devolve back into an "evil jock concubine?" Are all of the detainees going to make it out alive? Has anyone noticed that I've started going back and adding robots to the beginning of the story?

AND WILL SOMEONE PLEASE FIND JAZZ?!

He seems to have dropped completely off the POV radar. Nobody knows where he is, so I can't write about him.

Maybe CaSETIcon can find him. He's the transforming radio telescope. He's gone a bit nuts because he's spent all of this time forced to look for alien life, but the only direction he can't point his receivers at is himself. Keep looking, big guy!


	68. The Promised Time

I've been really busy this week, but I couldn't resist turning out this little snippet on the side. Because you _know _this had to happen.

**BluebirdSoaring: **My little Japanese phone has a goldfish dangly. I don't know what that says about its factional affiliations…

**Elita One: **Fear not; his location and purpose _are _known to me. It'll just take a while to get there in the plot.

Transformers still doesn't belong to me. This borrowing without permission. I'll give them back, I promise! …maybe…

Praised Be, The Promised Time is Upon Us

"Mutter-grumble-muttermutter, gripe… Muttermutter rant, rant!rave!; rantmutter-grumble gripe rave!"

Well, that's what Sunstreaker heard, anyway. His attentiveness may come slightly into question regarding the details of the lecture.

"Gripe grumblegrumble insult mumblemuttermutter rant!mutter _menace…"_

The truth was, he didn't really care about the words. He'd heard them all before, and they had long ceased to pique his concern.  It seemed like it had been ages already, since the medic had dragged his shrapnel-studded chassis through that tunnel and things had suddenly returned to normalcy.

The novelty had quickly worn off; nothing could be more processor-numbingly mundane than Ratchet mercilessly stripping away his armor to dig shards of battleship fuselage out of his inner workings, the strange muffled sensation of manually severed nervous connections, and the endless stream of insults and profanities spewing from the Autobot Chief Medical Officer. Indeed, such aggression would have been anathema to a hair-trigger killing machine such as himself, were it not so very routine and familiar. As things stood, the nucleus of foul language and flying tools bustling around the small makeshift medical space known as Ratchet was barely a blip on Sunstreaker's tracking grid.

The sly gleam in his brother's pale blue optics was, however, a rather large hotspot of alarm.

The yellow twin's already-high alert level was hardly eased when their built-in comm.-link bubbled to life.

_"Hold on to your paint job, bro, I think I feel a prank coming on…"_

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Uh-oh. Does anyone else feel like they're watching train wreck; you know it's going to hit the other train, but there's nothing you can do about it and you kind of want to run away even though you're not involved…?

Unfortunately, I'm the author and I have to not only stay and watch, but describe whatever happens in excruciating detail. While trying not to laugh hysterically and bother the rest of my dorm. Note to self: put a laugh warning on that chapter when it comes…

And thanks to everyone who tried to get Jazz to come out of sneaking. It didn't work, but maybe if we leave out a plate of brownies we can ambush him next time…

Speaking of Ambush; stay away from the evil robotic subway turnstile. He'll wait and close his padded gates just when you are stumbling through for the last train of the night!

Unless you leave a review, in which case I would save you with my commuter pass.


	69. Secret Travel Agent

Nyuuuuuuuuuu! Why can't I write anything longer?? …Maybe because I have no time.

My Japanese classes meet for 3 hours every day, and on Mondays and Thursdays I don't get out until 5 p.m. And I have a lot of homework. Stupid me. Stupid choosing the intensive program. Stupid need to graduate college…

Oh well. At least I got an update up, right? I'm actually getting back into my writing groove and planning what I'm going to do ahead of time. Fancy, right? There's going to be one MONSTER of a chapter coming your way soon, but in the meantime please accept my humble snippets. I will likely post whenever there's a POV change or somesuch break so the story doesn't get too dusty in my hard drive.

Toransufomaa ga motteinai yo.

Secret (Travel) Agent

"-you really don't have to, Ms. Secretary, ma'am; really, we're fine, Sophia and I don't want to-"

"Darren's right, we couldn't _possibly-"_

"Oh, but I _insist," _the harried Secretary of Homeland Security sighed and shook her head. "What was done to you two was completely out of line. It was unacceptable, especially in a crisis. Now I want you to go have a good time and enjoy your vacation. _No _buts." She eyed the distressed couple sternly. "I feel terrible and you'll just have to let me make it up to you. _Starting _with a dinner and hotel reservation to replace the ones you are going to miss." She thrust a folder into the mousey young woman's reluctant hands, "The directions are in there, along with a year-long national parks pass. I know you were headed out toward Mesa Verde, but if you spend tonight at the Grand Canyon and head east tomorrow, you can still make your tours and not be a day behind. I booked you a cabin with the Bright Angel Lodge, and your reservation for dinner is at eight o'clock. You'd better hurry if you wan to get there in time to freshen up."

Despite many 'no-'s and 'but-'s the tall, scrawny man and round-faced, freckled fiancée-to-be were shooed into their rental car and any and all protests were quickly quashed. "Have a good time, you two!"

Once again, the couple looked at each other in fright and seemed about to protest again, but a pair of men in fatigues approached the car and started waving it to pull out. Exasperated, Darren finally started the vehicle and ambled it out to the road. As it climbed up onto the black pavement, Sophia finally got the window open and leaned out, waving frantically, her voice barely squeaking over the noise of traffic and the breeze flowing up over the dam, "Thank you! Thank you so much! Come to our wedding? I mean-" the sound trailed off as the dark green Subaru wagon shrank in the distance and followed the road away around a curve.

Smiling to herself and lowering her waving hand, Secretary Hewitt enjoyed a moment of peace and quiet.

…only to have it interrupted by a loud, echoing rumble…

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**…SUSPENSE?** Yeah, I don't like that one either. But what can ya do? I can't write any more tonight and I don't know when my next chance will be.

I'd like to take this opportunity to issue an official, and deeply heartfelt apology. I promised "The Popcorn Incident" a long time ago, lost it, and haven't finished rewriting it yet. Please understand that I started it way back around when I posted Chapter 23 of TB- _ages _ago- and it was close to twenty pages long by the time it got scrapped. I think it's time to admit I can't replace that kind of thing in a reasonable amount of time; it was chock full of humor I can't remember and brimming with TV, movie and song quotes that make my head spin just thinking about finding them all again. Take Two is in the works, but let's face it, this is going to take a while. Sigh.

It will happen! I haven't given up on it by any means; I just don't have the time right now. But what I will do to make it right is this. I am going to sneakily, as if this never happened, turn out kiriban one-shots when appropriate, starting with a belated 500 reviews one that's already in the works. You reader-folk deserve it for sticking with me. Then, there will be a 100,000 hits one; you'll just have to take my word for the timing on that one. And for some extra flavor I have a special 666 reviews kiriban planned and started already. Be warned; it shall be dark. Aaaaaaand since I've had a huge drop in readership/reviewership, I'm reinstating the 10rpc (reviews per chapter) bonus chapter.  

And then, as if magically and for no reason at all, The Incident will happen. The prerequisite is already fulfilled, when it's done, it's yours.

But hold onto your tailpipes, folks; my muse is back and ready to kick my aft back into high gear! I'm so happy, I have IDEAS again!

MAKE ME WRITE MORE PLEASE! (Hitthebutton!)


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